


MCU One-Shot Collection

by goddamnhella



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-25 23:32:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 47,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9851936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddamnhella/pseuds/goddamnhella
Summary: Rhodey never made any promises to let Steve lie after the events in Siberia. Some things friends are just better equipped to do.





	1. Comms Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhodey never made any promises to let Steve lie after the events in Siberia. Some things friends are just better equipped to do.

Tony would understand.

Probably. Flagrant theft for the purposes of need and kindness was his thing, after all. War Machine wouldn’t have become a superstar if Tony hadn’t let him walk away with it back in the day.

Was a burner phone any different? Was a _—_

Rhodey glared down at the burning green screen in his hand, the flip-phone backlit like something from the nineties. Old model. Less likely to be traced accurately via GPRS mapping, but definitely not impossible. Steve had left more than one map for Tony to find him, obviously. The anonymous number in the contacts list. The letter _—_ god, that letter. And the phone had to be a twin for Steve’s own burner. Buy two, get a reunion someday. After Tony told himself all the things he needed to get himself through the days, the weeks, the years. However long it was going to be before they looked each other in the eye again.

What a goddamn mess.

Rhodey had once sat back, a scotch in one hand and a tablet in the other, reclined on the daybed on his hotel balcony, watching the stars and wondering if Steve would replace him soon as Tony’s closest friend, his partner. Nights when he’d been half a world away on missions for any number of bigwigs in the white house. The top brass. He’d always been a military man, generally on the straight and narrow, though Tony used to do his damnedest to drag him into trouble. Seeing someone like Steve Rogers, Captain America himself existing in close quarters with Tony, as part of a team, yeah…he could see himself being replaced. How did anyone measure up to a living legend, let alone one that had had real face-time with Howard Stark during the war? Tony had reviled and admired Steve’s ghost since he’d been in his school shorts.

And look what had happened.

The image of Tony’s face when he’d stumbled into Rhodey’s hospital suite after getting home from Siberia was something out of nightmares. He’d still been shaking hours after getting out of the suit. Nothing dramatic or overblown, but his fingers had been cold when Rhodey had reached out and gripped them tightly, and the tremor racing through him was faint and furious and devastated.

The only thing Tony managed to say was, “ _Mom_.”

It had sounded like a curse, some terrible malediction. Or maybe it was a plea.

It didn’t matter.

Rhodey had hit the duress button on his bed without ever taking his eyes away, but it hadn’t been for himself.

Shock, the nurses determined, brows creased in consternation as a superhero and a celebrity stood in their grasp and barely saw them. Shock and a bruised sternum, bruised chest in general. Rhodey barely bit back his own questions about Tony’s heart.

He knew all he needed to. Tony had raced out to save Steve and his friend Bucky, and came back damaged worse than ever.

Two weeks later, when he’d been released into Tony’s care _—_ and there wasn’t enough time in the day to talk about _that—_ Tony had already buried himself in his newest project and emerged with leg braces that could use subsonic frequencies to activate nanites injected into Rhodey’s spinal cord, repairing the damage even as they allowed him to gain his mobility back. The injections hadn’t been fun, but the alternative would have been worse. High tech prosthetic, isn’t that what Tony had called his suit in the senate hearing? The brace was more focused, but Rhodey saw the guilt and self-recrimination in each minuscule screw and titanium joint.

Time and again he’d tried to get Tony to open up about what happened with him and Steve, what Maria had to do with it. Tony shut him down each time, too invested in Rhodey’s legs, in fixing what he thought he’d done. Guilt after guilt after guilt.

One day they sat on the training mats beside the parallel bars, Rhodey breathing hard from the exertion and Tony trying not to hover beside him, and it had all just come pouring out.

First had been Rhodey’s personal ownership of everything that had happened. His lack of regret when he made his decision to stand by the accords. It had been right then and his resolve hadn’t crumbled in the days after his injury. If he didn’t blame Vision, how the hell could he ever blame Tony? How the hell could Tony blame himself?

A couriered package had arrived to interrupt the dawning light in Tony’s eyes, but it had been okay. One wall had fallen away, at least.

Then Tony had scanned the letter in the cardboard envelope he’d received and blanched so fast Rhodey had actually staggered forward to catch his elbow, just in case. He’d see Tony reading that letter at least five more times in different parts of the compound later on, but in that moment he had no qualms about snatching the paper from his fingers, leaning hard on his crutches, legs barely locked and tingling in their braces.

 

_Tony,_

_I’m glad you’re back at the compound. I don’t like the idea of you rattling around a mansion all by yourself. We all need family._

_The Avengers are yours, maybe even more so than mine. I’ve been on my own since I was eighteen. I never really fit in anywhere, even in the army. My faith is in people, I guess. Individuals. And, I’m happy to say that for the most part, they haven’t let me down. Which is why I can’t let them down either. Locks can be replaced, but maybe they shouldn’t._

_I know I hurt you, Tony. I guess I thought by not telling you about your parents I was sparing you, but I can see now that I was really sparing myself, and I’m sorry. Hopefully one day you can understand._

_I wish we agreed on the accords, I really do. I know you’re doing what you believe in, and that’s all any of us can do. That’s all any of us should do._

_So no matter what, I promise you, if you need us—if you need me—I’ll be there._

 

Rhodey put two things together in that moment, staring at the slanted handwriting on the paper that felt strange in his fingers.

One, Steve knew that Tony was back home in the compound, from wherever he was holed up. There were eyes on them.

Two, Steve had been keeping secrets. The kind of secrets that had sent Tony into a tailspin, had him shipping back a suit with a devastating gouge in its chestplate and a shield that had claw marks in it that only refined vibranium could dole out.

Rhodey had lifted his eyes to Tony’s, and nothing else had needed to be said.

It would be over three hours before they’d leave the training mats again; the sun gone down at their backs and Friday activating the interior lights by soft, almost imperceptible degrees as Tony talked himself hoarse and Rhodey listened.

As he listened, his eyes wide and mouth twisted at the tale, something in his chest turned cold and hard. Turned ugly and mean and god, for a second he knew Tony’s first protective instinct to attack far too intimately. Feeling the steel of his anger gather like a fist around his throat he listened and nodded, giving Tony everything but the knot of rage that he tried to quell with every slow breath he took. It wasn’t about him. Those hours had been Tony’s alone.

Later, what felt like days and weeks and centuries later, Rhodey stared up at the stars from the balcony daybed at the Avengers compound and wondered if he could make Steve Rogers pay.

It started with a phone call, and a burner phone stolen from Tony’s bedside drawer. Friday’s sensors had been a watchful glint the entire agonising way, but she’d said nothing. There was a bit of JARVIS in her code, he was sure of it.

The phone call had been on Rhodey’s own personal cell, and it had been to someone in an area of the military that knew a little something about intercepting devices manufactured before 2004. The results had been rapid and direct, and that had been that, really.

A week later, with it all said and done, Rhodey stared at the burner phone’s backlit screen, glowing green in the dim light beneath third-storey eaves, seeing the sunset blaze red and give way to lavender and blue, and hoped Tony wouldn’t mind that much.

Some things a friend was just better equipped to do.

Rhodey’s thumb hit ‘Call’ on the anonymous number. The dial tone hitched and bleated out a re-routed series of beeps: international prefix dial tone. Then it purred the sound of an attempted connection.

And he waited.

Behind the wall at Rhodey’s armoured back, there was a curse and a frantic rustle of paper and a drawer being ripped open. Fool had left the balcony door open.

The click of connection was deafening.

“Tony?” a familiar voice said, striving for tones of cool confidence.

Smiling grimly, Rhodey pushed his armoured suit off the wall of T’Challa’s palace and released the reflective cloaking that had been visually and electromagnetically hiding his suit.

Tony had called the prototype ‘Ghost’.

Rhodey rather liked the poetry of it.

Steve’s blue eyes widened as Rhodey walked in from the balcony, faceplate up and burner phone in hand. The connection was still live.

“Surprise, motherfucker,” Rhodey said cheerfully, but that steel was still a vice around his throat. The look in Steve’s eyes said he knew it.

“Tony can’t come to the phone right now.”

 


	2. Papercut Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had Tony really forgotten to tell the team he had the arc reactor removed?
> 
> The look in Steve's eyes said he had.
> 
> In which Steve is desperately lonely, Tony is oblivious, and Natasha is sick of the whole song and dance. Friendship wasn't supposed to be this hard, was it?

“Good work, team,” Steve was saying over the comms as he hung in Tony’s grip above the Avengers Tower landing pad, politely ignoring how his repulsors were spluttering with the interruption of power between suit limbs and arc reactor. “We’re tired, bloody and sweaty, but the city’s safe again because of our hard work today.” Tipping his head back, Steve gave Tony a toothy smile. His teeth sparkled unfairly in his grime-covered face. “As a reward, Tony’s going to let us into the top shelf of his liquor cabinet and order the good Chinese tonight.”

“ _Oh, yes, god yes,_ ” Clint groaned, hopefully in response to the food thing. “ _I want—I want ten of everything. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Tony, I love you. I love your credit card.”_

“Aww, shucks,” Tony replied, smothering his wince as the repulsors spluttered again. JARVIS flashed a red warning on his HUD. “But you love Steve more for hog-tying me into saying yes, right?”

“ _Look, I don’t want to take sides when my dinner is on the line.”_

“So that’s how it is.”

“Tony,” Steve started consolingly, “you— _shit!_ ” For Tony had let go of his burden a little too early, hovering back to watch Steve tuck and tumble with expert acrobatics and frankly annoying reflexes. Overhead, the quinjet rotated into landing position, its dark shadow passing over them both.

Steve rolled back to his feet fluidly, his expression torn between annoyance and amusement, but both faded quickly as Tony’s repulsors finally failed and he landed hard on one knee, a spider-web crack crawling out from the weight of his impact.

Hunched over, Tony watched the HUD flash red in multiple sites and then go dark. Oh well, he thought in resignation, the blows the chest-plate had taken were going to go critical at one stage or another. He’d known that much. New reactor time, maybe some reinforcement on the socket—

“Tony!”

Brute force hit the side of the suit so hard that for a second Tony thought he was being attacked again. The sky whirled through the visor as he was pushed onto his back, the red-streaked blue of the late afternoon sky replaced by wide eyes and a shock of sweaty blond hair. Dimly, Tony noted that Steve was probably due for a haircut.

“Steve—” He couldn’t hear Tony, of course. It was probably just muffled noise from inside the armour with the power cut to the mic. He shifted slightly to activate the release mechanism, then froze as hands planted themselves on the chest of the suit.

“Oh my god.” Steve was staring at the chestplate in horror. “Tony, Tony _hang on_.”

The penny dropped so fast Tony felt a little dizzy with the realisation.

He never had bothered to tell them, had he? Hadn’t he meant to tell them?

Tony squeezed the release mechanism in the gauntlet harder than he strictly needed to, feeling the metal retract into plates that cracked open like a chrysalis, revealing him trying for his best ‘ _I’m sorry and also I’m not dying_ ’ expression. The afternoon air was cool on his skin, which was only protected by his prototype black undersuit. The veins of blue worked through the material shone in the dying sunlight, and for a moment he wondered what Steve saw, with the way his eyes changed like that.

Then Steve was looking at his chest, which had a dull circle of metal implanted in the suit. It was, unfortunately, right where the arc reactor used to sit. There was nothing but scars beneath it now.

“I don’t—last time that thing went out you’d fallen out of the sky and Hulk and I thought you were dead.” There was something tightly leashed in Steve’s voice. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Tony carefully pulled himself out of the suit one limb at a time, minding the edges of the titanium plating that had stopped his chest from being caved in. They’d taken the worst of the beating, but the arc reactor hadn’t been fully encased in it.

When he looked up, Steve’s eyes were dark blue and he was pulling away. Letting him have a secret he hadn’t meant to keep. Tony grabbed his forearm with a sweaty hand, and when he didn’t move, hauled himself to his feet with it. Then he just hung on.

“This port is just to read my vitals more accurately while I’m suited up. It’s not an arc reactor. See?”

Steve watched him stretch the undersuit out, tugging the circular port out with it. Then he shook off Tony’s hand and grabbed the disc, ripping it straight out of the undersuit with one hard tug. The thin material didn’t stand a chance—and neither did Tony, who had no time to cover the sight of what the arc reactor removal had left behind.

“Well, this is uncomfortable,” Tony said, as Steve simply stared at the disfigured ruin of his chest.

“Sorry, I’m—sorry,” Steve was saying as the rest of the team jogged up behind him, investigating the one-sided conversation they’d received over the comms. Bruce and Natasha took one look and gave him measured looks of resignation and speculation, respectively. Tony just looked away as Clint jogged up to him and stopped dead, joining Steve’s tableau of revulsion.

Having the equivalent of a soup can unbolted from your sternum and pulled out left quite an interesting mess of scar tissue and sunken muscle. Tony knew: he’d examined it in the mirror every morning for a month until he simply had to give up on the idea he’d ever get his old pectorals back, that there’d no longer be a dim blue light in the darkness as he lay in bed at night. The cold still made his chest ache, which was some psychosomatic bullshit.

So the arc reactor was gone, the shrapnel was gone, and Tony was finally safe and free of that dank old cave’s shadow.

Now he just had to contend with the look in Steve’s eyes.

“In retrospect, I probably should have been a little more open about the surgery,” Tony started tiredly, remembering a hundred arguments with Pepper, and the way her eyes had carefully avoided the skin grafts and scars, always worried about hugging him too hard, lest the artificial sternum somehow crack and break apart. The necklace of shrapnel had become a shackle around her neck at some point, he supposed. One more grand gesture gone wrong. “But I’m fine. A little Frankenstein’s monster, around the chest area here, but still fine.”

“You look like you’ve been run through with a lamppost,” Clint said bluntly. “And then melted a little bit.” He was already reaching out to rub his thumb against the furthest edge of the scarring. “Hell of a battle scar, Stark. What were the survival odds of going under the knife for this?” Hell if there wasn’t a hint of faint admiration in his voice.

Tony took one look at Steve’s ashen face and decided he didn’t care.

“Twenty-three percent rate of complete success.” He shrugged and brushed off Clint’s hand. “I lied through my teeth to Pepper, obviously. But Rhodes knew.”

“Rhodes knew,” Steve repeated numbly, but his words were overridden as Natasha threw her usual two cents in.

“I guessed you’d had some kind of surgery, after you stopped that damn tapping on the metal rim you always do. Guess your heart’s got a little more room now.” Her coolly bland expression looked almost pointed. The woman was entirely too insightful sometimes. Did she know about Pepper? Natasha just shrugged at his curious frown and started yanking Clint toward the tower with a finger hooked in his back pocket. “I’m going to get the menus and order through JARVIS. Bruce, are you coming?”

“Yeah,” Bruce replied slowly, his shoulders hunched a little as his eyes swung between Tony and Steve. His sleeve was ripped down one side, Tony noted absently. Time for some new duds for the good doctor. “I’ll pour you a scotch for when you get in, Tony.”

Tony’s mouth twitched. Trust Bruce to know Steve was about to have a meltdown and Tony would have to be present for all of it.

“See you inside.”

“Uh huh.” There was a very obvious glint in his eye that said they’d talk about it later. At length. Which was bullshit—Tony _had_ actually told Bruce all about it on a therapist lounge while the bastard dozed in his chair. Which was great, really, because that meant Tony would get to milk that for favours. _Science_ favours.

Shaking his head, Tony looked down at his chest and wondered if the suit could still be salvaged, despite the enormous gaping hole where the stretch of the black fabric had let go, leaving an enormous gash across the chest of the undersuit. Probably not. He’d have to strip out the bio-paths in the suit and repurpose them in a new design.

A flat metal disc was thrust into the line of his vision, held out in a black-gloved palm. Steve’s fingers were dirty, he noticed. What was the point of fingerless combat gloves, really?

“Thanks,” Tony said, grabbing the missing port and flipping it over his fingers like a magic coin. It was too large to disappear, though. A lot like the expression he couldn’t really look at in Steve’s face. He held the disc up to the dying sunset, watching the metal blaze molten red. Extremis red.

“I’m sorry I embarrassed you,” Steve tried. When Tony just continued studying the port, he tried a little harder. “I— _twenty-three_ percent? You risked your life on twenty-three percent? Tony, I know we’re not close, I know you don’t think of me as a friend, but I thought you’d at least let us know if there was a chance you…you might not be back on the team.”

Tony plucked clumps of nanothread out of the bonding seam around the port. God, the cost. Maybe he had to use cheaper materials. Was it still expensive if he was making it himself? There was a question for the ages.

“Who said we’re not friends, Cap?”

Steve’s mouth thinned down into a tense line, like maybe he didn’t want to say.

Then, “You always call me Cap. And you’re,” he waved a vague hand at the path Bruce had taken into the house, “you have secrets with Banner I don’t know anything about. You see each other away from the team. Which is okay, I’m not griping about it. You trust your friends with things, Tony, and you haven’t trusted me with anything.” He gave a jerky, miserable shrug. “You don’t trust me.”

Tony thought it over. “I trust you with my life.”

“You’d trust anyone with your life.”

That stung in a strange, surprised corner of himself he tried not to think too much about. It reminded him of the admiration in Clint’s eyes as he’d told him the odds. One daredevil to another. Somehow, this mattered to Steve. One of his secrets. Friendship.

Scar tissue.

“Tit for tat, Cap,” Tony said abruptly. “You want to be friends? You want my confidence? Give me something worth all this, then.” He waved at his chest, the pale white and pink knots of scarring that slashed across his chest in twisted lines of old stitches and skin grafts. He might be healed, but the scars were new and raised, still there on the surface. A lot of him was, always had been. Tony wasn’t guilty over not telling Steve.

He was ripped out of his thoughts as Steve started unbuckling his body armour, right there on the landing pad. Blue triple-reinforced Kevlar hit the concrete as Steve pulled it over his head, followed by the undershirt dropped unceremoniously after it. Shirtless, gleaming with sweat and entirely resembling the cover of one of those bodice-ripper novels Pepper used to pretend she didn’t read, Steve shoved his right bicep under Tony’s nose for inspection.

“You have insanely large muscles?” Tony said, bemused. “I knew that.”

“Not the—no, look here,” Steve said, pointing with a grimy finger at a patch of light golden skin a few inches above his elbow. “See? There. There’s a bunch of them.”

Tony squinted, losing some of his cavalier demeanour. It had all been for his self-consciousness, anyway. The arm presented to him was smooth and bulging with frankly insulting amounts of ill-gotten science muscle, but it so happened that Tony was a fan of science things, so he didn’t let it get him down. He struggled to see what Steve so obviously did with his super-soldier vision.

Like a 3D puzzle, Tony pulled his head back and relaxed his eyes. And he saw it.

Sixteen little pinpricks, grouped too tightly together to have occurred at separate occasions. Signs of injection. Track marks, in casual terms. Tony ran his fingers over each semi-invisible indent. The smallest scars in history, and the only ones Steve Rogers would probably ever bear.

“These are…?”

“Yeah,” Steve replied steadily. “I know they’re small, but to me I guess they’re still pretty big. They never faded after...I suppose I thought they’d heal.”

Tony didn’t reply, opting instead to press his fingertips firmly into Steve’s skin and drag down, barely feeling each dip and rise from those old injection marks. The serum had been forced beneath his skin there, in untested doses at levels that nobody could really qualify as safe.

“What were your odds?” Tony heard himself ask, watching his fingers brush Steve’s, where he still pointed to the evidence.

“I never asked,” Steve replied. His fingers pressed over Tony’s, holding them in place. “But everyone looked real surprised when I didn’t come out looking like a space monster.”

“Sure, _that’s_ why they were surprised when they saw you.”

“My insanely large muscles might have played a part,” Steve replied with an arch of his eyebrow. It faded quickly after, however, leaving Tony looking up into those terrible midnight blue eyes again. “Tony, why didn’t you tell us about the reactor?”

There were so many easy answers to that question. He forgot. He was distracted. He didn’t think it would matter. It was his business. He didn’t want to be looked at differently. Pepper left him. So many opportunities to talk about things in his life, decisions he’d made based on those, and Tony had kept himself at a distance from the Avengers. Maybe because he still felt like they weren’t going to stay, whatever money and living spaces he threw at them. Nothing that good came without a cost, and that price hadn’t fallen upon him yet.

“Because I cut the wire,” he said eventually, and lifted his eyes. “Or I take the hit myself. Too many years spent making sure I’m not a liability, Cap. Making sure I’m not weighing anyone down.”

For a long moment, Steve just looked at him, his lips moving silently like there were simultaneously too many and not enough words to say.

“You’re the guts of this team, Tony,” he managed finally. “How the hell could any of us do this without you?”

“Well, despite appearances, SHIELD could still fund—”

“I’m not talking about money, Tony. I’m talking about you.” A half-gloved finger prodded hard against his sternum, giving absolutely no shits about his prosthetic plate. “You, and your brain, and your generosity, and ingenuity. Your friendship, even when you don’t think you’re giving it. The fact that if I hadn’t suggested that reward for the team you would have offered it anyway. The floors in the tower you had cleared out and fitted to give me an entire gym full of weights nobody else except Thor could lift, if he was around right now. It’s—you, Tony. You’re our friend and you’ve got no idea, do you?”

Blinking rapidly at the sight of Steve so incensed and flushed in the cheeks, Tony tried to process what he was saying—and what he wasn’t.

_Guess your heart’s got a little more room now._

“Everyone’s your friend when you’ve got something people want,” Tony said simply. “Money, power, a soft place to land. Political connections. I always knew where I stood in this team, Cap. I’m the insulation and the wall. You think I’m not your friend? I am. I just never really gave a damn if you were mine.”

“We're adults, Tony,” Steve countered gamely. “Nobody ever came here needing any of that. That’s not why we stayed.”

“But it sure didn’t hurt. Some playboy sugar daddy, the son of an old war friend? Bleeding dollars like sweat in a Californian sun—”

“That’s not right,” Steve interrupted. He seemed to have completely forgotten he was still standing there without his shirt on, fists clenched in their gloves like he wanted to hit something. “I don’t need your money and I don’t need your tech.”

Tony blinked. What the hell was left?

“Glad we cleared that up,” he said mildly. “And by that I mean I have no idea what you want from me. You want to be best friends? You want to know the whole tragic story? I told it all to Banner and he fell asleep, Cap, it’s not that thrilling. So we can compare scars all you want, you can throw my tech back in my face and pay me for the uniforms for all I care…what? What is it?”

Somewhere during Tony’s short speech, Steve’s shoulders had slumped. Not with a great dramatic sag, but a minute shifting of his posture. On anyone else it probably wouldn’t even be noted, but Tony had spent a lot of time watching Steve when he didn’t think anyone was looking. A military man like that, those shoulders were never anything but perfectly squared.

Just then there was a curve in those usually straight lines, and Tony didn’t know what to do about it. He watched as Steve reached down and grabbed his undershirt, pulling it back over his head. The sun had set during their little chat, and the shadows had all started to creep in. Yanking down the hem, Steve didn’t bother to fix his hair where the collar had mussed it. He started to turn away.

“Why does the arc reactor matter?” Tony blurted, his mouth completely bypassing his brain. “You said it yourself: we’re not close. We’re not friends. You wouldn’t miss me. Someone else would have filled that vacuum in the team. Your falcon friend, Sam Wilson. James Barnes, if he resurfaces. I know you’ve thought about it, and I have too. I’ve—had some things on the backburner for a while, things that might help him one day—”

“The arc reactor matters because you matter, Tony.” Steve was blunt in his admission, and it cut something out from under Tony. But he wasn’t done. “I _would_ miss you. All of us would, but you hold yourself at this incredible distance from us. I thought we were getting somewhere lately, I really did.” Steve retracted his step, instead crowding Tony with his larger frame. His jaw was twitching slightly, moving the shadows across his face. “I thought you were dying on me today, and then I find out you could have died months ago, and I never would have known. I can’t accept that. There’s more than just two people in this world who give a damn about you, Tony. What you do when you’re away from us—that matters too.”

Tony stared long and hard at Steve, unsure but sensing something was clicking into place. The friendship talk. Steve’s eyes on his scarred chest. This relentless drilling lecture about letting them in. Had Natasha been talking about the team?

Or had she been talking about Steve?

Standing there, buffeted by the rising wind out there on the landing pad, Tony felt like there was a revelation happening behind a paper screen, some flimsy thing that stood between them. Tony wondered if it was his pride. But Obadiah Stane’s lessons had been hard, and he’d learned them well.

Standing there as the last light vanished and the cold sank into his bones, Tony felt his chest ache with a remembered pain. But the arc reactor was gone. So were a lot of things.

Maybe he’d been clinging to the past a little too long. The circle was getting bigger. The Avengers weren’t an experiment; weren’t some ant farm he could pick up and put down when it suited him. Steve wasn’t about to let him, in any case.

“You don’t have many friends, do you, Cap?” The question was rhetorical at best, but Tony was interested in the stubborn jut of Steve’s sharp jawline. “Why are you so set on me? If you haven’t noticed, we’re sort of polar opposites. Our first decent conversation was an argument. Sort of set the tone, don’t you think?”

“My best and oldest friend in the world is a brainwashed Hydra assassin who tried to kill me.” There was no bitterness in Steve’s voice, just an unrelenting honesty that rattled Tony’s teeth. “I can handle a little opposition. For the right reasons.”

Arms reflexively crossed over his chest, Tony tilted his head.

“I don’t sleep when the rest of you do,” he said.

“Me either,” Steve countered.

“I take stupid risks.”

“They’re always for a good cause.”

“I build as many suits as I destroy.”

“Everyone needs a hobby.”

“I hate your helmet.”

“Why?”

“It hides your face.”

_Uh-oh._

Steve coloured slightly. At least, Tony thought he did.

“Your whole head is covered by your suit,” Steve said at length. He cleared his throat. “Is it the ‘A’ that bothers you? Someone called me Captain Asshole on the internet once. I _hate_ Twitter. I should never have gotten the account. Nat never even uses hers.”

Tony tried not to smile at the idea that internet trolls had gotten beneath Steve Rogers’ skin. Natasha had convinced him to get a Twitter account? How long had she been personally sponsoring the Captain America friendship initiative?

“I could follow you,” Tony offered, his mouth quirking. “I haven’t used it in a few years, but I could dust the old account off. Protect you from those nasty strangers giving you sass.”

Steve blinked. “I’d like that.” Then, “I get all the sass I need from you.”

Tony laughed, a good laugh that he knew changed the lines of his face. It surprised them both, if Steve’s wide eyes were any indication. It was a surprising day all round, apparently.

“Let’s get inside,” said Steve. “You’ll catch a cold out here with that tear in your undersuit. Why’d you make something that looks like a body stocking? It’s fall, Tony. Line it in fur at least.”

“You’re a man of strange tastes, I’ll say that much.” Leaving the wounded shell of his latest destroyed suit behind, Tony pushed past broad shoulders and sparkling dark blue eyes, brighter than he’d ever seen them. “Do you think Natasha ordered the shrimp?”

“Bruce has your back, he’ll make sure.” A broad, grimy hand gripped his wrist and tugged. “So, do I have your word on the not taking life-endangering risks idea?”

Heading for the warm golden lights of the tower living area—the party deck, as they’d called it—Tony pretended to think it over as the warmth of a larger hand soaked through his suit.

“I’ll tweet you if I get any bright ideas. What’s your handle?”

Steve looked at him like he was a little bit dim.

“It’s Steve Rogers. With a blue tick.”

Tony smiled at him.

“Okay then. Steve it is.”

 


	3. A Bite to Eat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Tony's mind, there was only one thing to do when there was a potential vampire trickster in their midst.

Loki stared down at himself in disbelief. Water streamed off his leather armour, dripping from his jaw and over his neck. Calmly, as though Tony was the dangerous one, Loki wiped his face with the back of his hand. His slitted green eyes never left Tony’s.

"Why, thank you for the impromptu bath." He wrung out one wet skein of hair with distaste. "Now, please pick which limb you’d like me to break first."

Tony glared at his flask of triple-blessed holy water, now empty. So much for the power of Christ compelling anything. Or was that demons? Flicking Loki a quick glance, he decided it wasn’t totally inaccurate.

Oh well, he thought abruptly, on to phase two. There was only a limited window of time before Loki’s patience would come to an end. Just because they weren’t flat-out enemies anymore didn’t mean he wouldn’t happily eviscerate Tony. He seemed to take to water about as well as a stray cat.

Loki cursed as blue light was shone directly into his eyes via a penlight — well, a UV penlight supercharged to practically burn retina.

"Stark, in Midgard’s common vernacular, _what the fuck?_ " Loki snarled, batting the light out of his hand. "Your idiocy is currently outweighing any oaths I made to refrain from killing you. Are you seeking to blind me?" It seemed to have partially worked, too — just not in the way Tony had intended. Loki jammed a green-glowing thumb into his temple in an attempt to thwart a likely headache.

"I know what I saw," Tony said resolutely. "And until I find your weakness and exploit it for my own ends, I’m not going to stop. So you just stand there and let me work, Vlad the Enchanter."

"I’m a sorcerer," Loki replied crossly, but he looked curious despite his irritation. "What is it you think you saw?"

"Nothing," Tony said, pricking his fingers behind his back with a safety pin. Loki’s pupils shrank into pinpoints an instant later. His nostrils flared. _Bingo._ "Just wondering why the sorcerer god of assholes sometimes has a pair of fangs and likes the smell of blood a little more than any self-respecting warrior type should." He smiled. "So which is it? Born with it? Bitten? I’ve seen the movies, I can keep an open mind—"

Loki’s hand grabbed his throat, hauling him in until they stood chest-to-chest. Tony found himself staring into reflective red pupils. That was new. Also, terrifying.

“ _You_ can keep your stupid mouth shut,” Loki hissed, but his eyes were darting around like he was trying to find something. “I’ve touched no human, nor do I ever intend to. Your kind repulses me.”

"You’re touching a human right now," Tony grunted, and lifted his fingers. They were smeared with red, and Loki’s gaze locked onto them like a heat-seeking missile. "And you seem kind of interested in—ow."

JARVIS had predicted as much, Tony thought in disturbed resignation, watching Loki bite down on his fingertips, his tongue lashing them clean of any blood. He really needed to listen to JARVIS a little more.

"I didn’t wash my hands after using the bathroom," Tony told him. Loki spat his fingers out almost immediately in disgust. He had half a glimpse of white fang teeth before they glimmered with magic and vanished. Nice. "I’m kidding. I just wanted to see if you’d let go. Clean freak."

"I do possess some self control," Loki said, but he sounded shaken. Or as shaken as a magical vampire prince could sound. "Don’t be such a fool next time, Stark. What I am is no business of yours."

"Sure, except how do I know the next time I get bashed in the face you’re not going to leech out on me again?"

"I don’t _need_ the blood. Not like your ravenous creatures from legend do.” Taking a step back, Loki’s body rippled with light, replacing his armour with more suitable human attire. His expression was desperately unhappy, almost drawn. “Now if you’re quite finished—”

"I won’t tell," Tony interrupted, feeling something push at his conscience. "Sorry for the holy water. The UV light was mostly for fun. So let me make it up to you."

"How?" Loki asked, his eyes gleaming with sudden menace. "Dinner, perhaps?" Tony held up his hands.

"Don’t be an asshole. But yeah, okay, dinner. I know a place that does an amazing steak: two inches thick and pink as…is that your innuendo face? Put it away, my god."

"Hm." Loki gave him a considering look. "Fine. But wear something with a collar. I’ll have no more temptation from you tonight."

"You want to see me in a collar?"

“ _Damn it_ , Stark.”

 


	4. A Haunting in New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik Selvig's days of quietly researching the mind stone and Thor's vision in the cave pool keep being interrupted by an old face.
> 
> An old, supposedly dead face.

Erik Selvig woke like he had most mornings since an otherworldly sceptre tapped his chest: feeling like he was missing something vital and seeing altogether far too much. The restrictive, smothering control had been gone a long time, but the chittering darkness never seemed to truly leave. It always took a few moments before he felt like his thoughts were quiet enough to allow him to sit up and breathe.

In this case, Erik noted with distant regret, he was already sitting up. He’d fallen asleep at his desk again, images of the mind stone’s scans and associated data arranged on his computer like an overlapping game of solitaire. Vials of clear water stood in their wooden frame on his desk, taken from the pool in which Thor had seen the destruction of everything.

Destruction, and infinity. Six stones, never joined or kept apart.

Erik knew he shouldn’t be digging into it after what happened last time he got involved in the affairs of gods, but Stark had given him the compound’s databases for this purpose and between the two of them, surely there were answers within.

Surely redemption lay somewhere ahead. Something to cancel out the blue fingers he felt sliding behind his eyeballs, pressing on things that made him think of endless doorways to endless death.

“God help me.” He was depressing himself. Erik tried to be a ray of sunshine, he did. Some days it was just harder than others.

“You called?” The sly, silky voice of indulgent amusement spoke from his right, where a familiar figure in green and black lounged in the shadows of his office.

Erik barely blinked.

“No, not you,” he said flatly. “Send me someone beautiful. If I’m to be haunted by dead things and madness, at least make it worth putting on my glasses.”

“How offensive.” The shadows melted as Loki stepped out of them, grinning like a fox—only twice as cunning. “Who else travels so far to check on your welfare? Jane Foster? Thor?”

“Spare me your psychotic self-pity and vanish, spectre. I’ve given you all the time I can spare.”

“But you’re so close to real progress,” was the guileless reply. “Don’t you want my help?”

Erik snapped his gaze away from the god of lies. Lies, temptation, and—

“Why is it the only dead who can’t stay still and quiet are the ones people least want to hear from?” he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. The scans swam before his eyes as he pulled his glasses from their case. “What did I do to earn _you_?”

The figure standing by his desk didn’t immediately reply. Slipping his glasses on, Erik blinked the world back into some semblance of clarity. Loki was still there, as ever, slightly translucent and forever appearing put-upon by Erik’s lack of hospitality. Whether he was a ghost or figment of his damaged psyche, he was at least acting true to form.

It had been roughly six weeks since Ultron’s attack ended, and within that time Loki had appeared to him at least once every eight days to bother with his research, ask after Jane, and generally recline on the spare couch that was pushed against an unused wall, moved aside so that Erik could pin up flow charts and pieces of information he couldn’t see the pattern in yet.

Six weeks, and Loki’s ghost—Loki’s lingering influence—kept appearing. Erik didn’t like mysticism much, but it appeared to like him immensely. He kept the episodes to himself mostly, fearing he’d be deemed unsound and have his research confiscated before he could find his decent breakthrough. Besides, the Haldol kept in his top drawer reminded him that if the going got tough, he could always send his personal demon off the old fashioned way.

“You were brilliant, of course,” Loki replied finally in answer to his question, but his mouth was pinched slightly. “Only the brightest mind and the sharpest eyes could satisfy me, at that time.”

“Jane could have—”

“I probably would have killed her out of spite.” The interruption was almost cheerful. “Be honest, now, Erik. You know my patience is only outmatched by my desire to break Thor’s toys.” He paused, shrugged. “Or it was. These days I find myself entranced by six beautiful stones, and what they might spell for us all.”

Stones again. Always with the stones.

Deliberately, Erik locked his workstation with a two-key press on the keyboard, masking his scans behind a floating screensaver emblazoned with the Avengers symbol.

Loki’s green eyes sharpened with amusement—and something else.

“You’ve found something, haven’t you?”

“No,” Erik replied honestly, leaning back in his office chair slightly. “But you see, I had myself mostly convinced this entire time that you weren’t real, for all your wailing about being a ghost committed to the underworld. It all simply felt too familiar, until you started on about the impending doom and all. I know truth when I hear it now, Loki. You haven’t been telling it. So I have my own theory.”

Loki’s head tilted slightly. His eyes sparked with challenge, but it was his mouth that gave him away: just a curl of cleverness waiting to be proved right.

“Go on.”

“You’re not a ghost!” Erik could have laughed. “And you’re not a figment of my nightmares. But you are somewhere, and that place is not here. You want the stones, but you can’t have them. So you come to me. I know you, Loki. Some things I don’t forget.”

Loki smiled. A true smile, not an angry reflex or some preening mask to hide his true motives. He actually smiled.

“Too clever by half, Doctor. This _is_ why I pester you, of course. Things far bigger than us both threaten to come raining down on our heads, and the devastation will be complete should we fail.” Leaning forward, Loki planted a long-fingered hand on the fine wood of his expensive desk. He wasn’t so transparent anymore, Erik noted with some hesitation. “We need each other this time. My petty rebellions are done. Asgard—” Loki stopped dead like the word had choked him.

“What about Asgard?” Erik said immediately, eyes sharp. Loki just exhaled a short breath, giving him a long, measuring look.

“Asgard has always been my highest priority. If a power can challenge the Nine, it will start there.”

“And shit rolls downhill,” Selvig finished soberly, ignoring Loki’s startled glance. “But what assurance do I have that you don’t simply want to seize power for yourself again? If there’s five more stones out there like the one that you used on me, maybe we should all burn before handing it to you.”

“I do enjoy your faith in me, Selvig,” Loki said pleasantly, if a little sharply. “However, not even I possess the power to wield the gauntlet at its full capacity. The Mind Stone had to be encased in a masking layer of protective crystal and attached to an _uru_ staff before I could even use one. Now picture five more.” He paused for what could only be dramatic effect. “Are you close to imagining the kind of being that might be interested in amassing such treasures—and is capable of wielding them all at once?”

Skirting around behind him, Loki moved to lean over Erik’s shoulder and stare at the computer screen with meaningful intent. He smelled like nothing, and radiated no heat or cold. But he was no longer transparent, ghostlike and mocking.

One small concession for Erik’s sanity.

“Are you afraid, Loki of Asgard?”

Erik didn’t tip his head up to glance at the god. Not until a hand closed upon his shoulder and squeezed lightly, an elegant thumb curving around the joint of his upper arm. Loki’s face was bone white in the cold light of the monitor, but his hand was strangely grounding. Tangible. A gesture of camaraderie, only this time there was no gemstone influence to hold his will to ransom.

“I’d be a fool if I wasn’t.”

Truth, Selvig thought, and sighed.

Perhaps he had some to face up to, also.

“Forget the scans. There’s a recording I want you to listen to.” When Loki just looked at him, Erik pulled open his top drawer, knocking aside his blister packet of Haldol to find his voice recorder. Loki snatched the medication up, holding it suspended between two fingers as he frowned at the label imprinted on the foil.

Ignoring that, Erik clicked ‘play’ on the recorder, allowing the tinny audio of its small speaker to play onward from where it had last been stopped.

It started with a softly sibilant voice, one that had poured from Thor’s mouth in a cave pool.

‘ _The stone draws you all to its brilliance, and you to your end.’_

_‘The stone, from Loki’s sceptre?’_

_‘It was_ never _his! It is of the six, the infinite six that cannot be joined nor kept apart.’_

At his left, Loki had turned utterly still. Listening as it all played out.

“ _Your enemies are closer. Fear—_ ” an inaudible static wash, “— _and brilliance only blinds_.’

Erik let it play until the audio ran out, not daring to look up. The click of the ‘stop’ button was very loud and final in the hollow quiet of the office.

“Well then,” Loki said evenly, and green-gold fire lit up around his hand. Erik looked up in time to see the last of his anti-psychotics go up in so much magical smoke. “You won’t be needing these anymore.” When Erik blinked up at him over his glasses, Loki only said, “If you’ve gone crazy, Doctor, then so have we all.”

“You were crazy before,” Erik said equitably. His only reply was a sharp laugh, surprised out of his formerly grim visitor.

“Perhaps I still am, for I intend to enrage a titan—and I want you to help me.”

Erik pretended to think about it, strangely drawn by the wild energy surrounding Loki. He’d never been quite so alive, last time. There was freedom in his actions, this time, in a way that had never been present when last they met.

There was truth, even. And that meant things had to be truly dire, for the god of lies to do away with his own bread and butter.

“I suppose our interests are aligned for the time being,” Selvig allowed, “but what of Thor? He thinks you dead.”

“Loki _is_ dead.”

Erik rubbed at his temples.

“At least no underground sewers this time. No eyeballs. Definitely no alien armies.”

“Agreed.”

“Fine.” Erik’s fingers clacked blindly over the keyboard, opening the depths of his research and theoretical notes to intense green eyes. “When this all goes to shit, Loki, just remember this whole haunting business, I will ensure it goes both ways.”

“Don’t flirt with me, Doctor,” was all Loki said in reply, already rolling the mouse down through pages and scans of energy readings, drinking down the equations like he knew what they all meant. “There will be enough blame and curses to go around, before the end truly comes.”

Sighing internally, Erik just allowed himself to be budged over on his wheeled chair while a god scrolled through a Word document that projected one part of the end of the universe.

So much for being that ray of sunshine. At least he seemed to be in good company, this time.

At his feet, the acrid scent of burning medication and plastic rose up in the air.

Perhaps sunshine was overrated.

 


	5. Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were days when Tony really felt like an honest-to-god superhero. Then there were the other days.
> 
> A short, sharp lesson in learning to feel.

There were days when Tony really felt like an honest-to-god superhero. Days when people shouted their thanks to the sky as he flew, who cheered wildly as he smacked the villain of the day around. Days when he saved a city of people who would have otherwise been helpless in the face of certain destruction.

Then there were other days.

Tony had been running over the scene with JARVIS for more than three hours. The structure of the apartment complex had been faulty. The place had been downright old—but it didn’t change the fact that it had only collapsed after he’d been hurled through the side of it.

"Run it again," he said shortly, taking a punishing gulp of his scotch. "Run the structural integrity of the entire block. Run anything, just—figure it out."

“ _I shall do my best, sir._ ”

It wasn’t going to change the outcome, but he needed it anyway. He needed to know he hadn’t hit the girl before the building came down.

The edges of his vision were just starting to blur from the rolling streams of data when sharp fingernails pricked the side of his neck. Breathing in sharply, Tony caught the unnervingly familiar scent of oiled leather and expensive shampoo.

"All alone and unprotected," a voice whispered against his ear. An arm curled around his waist, dragging dangerous lines with nails that felt like knives. "Were I anyone else, your insides would be on the floor right now."

Of all the nights, Tony thought, not sure whether to laugh at the unfairness or just plain despair of his life. Of all the nights and she chose that one to drop in. Loki’s timing was painfully impeccable.

"I’m not really in an entertaining mood," he started, but JARVIS overrode his dismissal.

“ _Scenario analysis complete. Statistical likelihood that Iron Man was the cause of death: ninety-seven percent.”_ JARVIS’s voice quietened. _“I am sorry, sir._ "

The hand on his stomach went still.

He’d seen it coming. Somehow, he’d already known what he’d done, but hearing his worst fears confirmed made it real. He’d killed a kid. The collapse of the building would have done it seconds later, but he’d _hit her first_. Pulling his shoulders up and back, Tony sucked in a fortifying breath.

"Thank you, JARVIS." Patting the hand pressed flat to his stomach, he pulled it away and turned around to face Loki with an expression he hoped was something approaching normal.

She was as heartbreakingly beautiful as ever, dressed in a soft green shift instead of her usual scale and leather getup. The golden discs that she habitually wove through her hair caught the overhead light, but it was her eyes that snared Tony’s attention. Deep and green and watchful, they seemed to burn a clean path into his headspace. Hell, with her, maybe that was exactly what she was doing. But it wasn’t the usual look Loki gave him and that was enough to put him on guard.

"Can we," Tony took a breath, "I’d really love a raincheck on tonight’s round of threats and flirting. It’s not a…not a good night for me."

Tony watched her deep red mouth purse in thought. She had gorgeous lips, perfectly plump and curved. He knew what that mouth tasted like, how it felt slammed against his own in fury and need. Just then, all he could think was that she was beautiful and clever and too sharp to hold onto. But still she kept coming back, all on her own.

"Collateral damage is often a by-product of battle, Stark—"

"Don’t." It was almost a plea. "Steve already gave me the soldier speech. My god, Loki, I had to pull her out." His eyes stung furiously but he swallowed, forcing it back. "She was eight and she was hiding in the wardrobe and she was _scared out of her mind._ I didn’t even see her until I noticed blood on the suit.” He was saying too much, he knew he was telling her things she could just bring up later, but the guilt was like poison, like shrapnel and just then Tony knew he deserved to hurt.

Loki didn’t respond; whatever cruel truth she’d been about to impart was kept trapped behind her teeth. If anything, she looked almost chastened by his outburst. Tony felt his shoulders slump again. Bad night all round, he thought. He felt hollow and sore all the way to his bones, and he just needed so desperately to sleep and forget—

A careful hand cupped his cheek gently, a thumb rubbing across the bruising there. Loki took his frozen surprise as permission to push her long nails through his hair, a soft palm cradling the back of his head as she awkwardly pushed her face against the side of his. Her body, for all its natural softness, felt tense and angular against his, like she’d only read about the mechanics of hugging another person. Or maybe like she’d forgotten how.

It wasn’t until Tony felt her other arm lift and wrap around him, felt her hand stroke a swath of warmth down his back that he realised she was genuinely trying to comfort him. Loki, their sometimes enemy.

"I spoke out of turn," she said stiffly. "My—my condolences."

God, they were a mess. Loki tripping on her words, Tony trying not to shake in her arms, just two emotionally crippled assholes standing in a 3D-rendered apartment collapse. Just another day.

He didn’t reply -honestly, he wasn’t sure he could speak- but instead let his arms lift and encircle her waist, pulling her in gingerly at first and when she simply sighed, gripping her like a lifeline. Maybe she was their enemy some days, maybe she was tricks and games and lies, but just then she was all that was holding him together. She was a soft mouth whispering words he didn’t understand, she was strong and careful arms tethering him, keeping him from crumbling apart.

It was a bad day, one of the worst, but Tony knew she wouldn’t tell.

 


	6. Digital Haystacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now after losing nearly all the Avengers, losing Pepper, juggling Thaddeus Ross and the Accords and everything that came with that fallout, Tony found himself wanting to run his fingertips through terabytes of old data, looking for something that recognised his life before.
> 
> Why did he want Jarvis back?
> 
> “I miss my friend,” said Tony.

 

♫ _So everybody everywhere, don’t be afraid, don’t have no fear, I’m gonna tell the world, make it understand, as long as there’ll be music we’ll be comin’ back again—_ ♫

“Friday, for the love of god, please stop piping that music down here.”

“ _Sorry, Boss. I compiled a resurrection playlist the internet assured me was appropriate for the kind of work you’re doing._ ”

“Nice try,” Tony said, staring at the fragmented code projected in blue light all around him. “You’re trying to throw me off my game with cheesy pop songs from the nineties.” Just when he’d been beginning the recognise the pattern in the shattered mess of it all, too.

“ _Don’t know what gave you that idea._ ” N*SYNC began blaring out of the overhead directional speakers. “ _It’s not as though I’m in danger of being replaced, Boss._ ”

“Technically you replaced Jarvis,” Tony replied absently, swiping a hand through junk data and directing it to the trashcan. Needles in haystacks in barns made of code. “Vision might have the core program of Jarvis uploaded to him as part of his synthetic makeup, but that’s been corrup—evolved into something unusable now.” He shot Friday’s sensors a slightly irritable glance. “I’m sifting manually here. You sure you can’t do any of this for me?”

The overhead lights abruptly turned dark red, almost like the colour of an angry flush.

Uh oh.

“ _You don’t know a thing about women, do you? Me, a proud Irishwoman, pandering to rebuild some snotty Englishman and do his bidding? Clean his code? Do you even know your history? Why, I’ll be wagering—”_

“You’re not actually Irish, Friday.”

But Friday wasn’t exactly listening, launching into a tirade worthy of—and probably adapted from—some of history’s best and greatest war speeches. Tony briefly regretted giving her so much personality and free rein, but in the smallest corner of his heart he was helplessly grateful for the noise and chatter. He leaned back in his chair and waited, mouth quirking every so often when she dropped a mild expletive. Unlike his previous array of AI, he might have programmed a little too much of his own insecurity into her.

When she finally ran out of steam, her waveform image going flat once more, Tony smiled a little.

“So, are you going to help me?”

“ _Well, of course. I can’t be sitting about letting some old program show me up._ ” Code remnants began flashing back and forth in a focussed algorithm, patching together destroyed memory data and framing their shared AI protocols around it. “ _Why’d you want Jarvis back so badly? I can do everything he did, and Vision is still about if you miss bein’ kindly condescended to.”_

Wasn’t that an excellent question. Unfortunately, Tony had too many complicated answers to give. Maybe it was because the compound workshop felt cold, and too-large, and nobody else remembered all the highs and lows of his life like they’d been there inside his skin the entire time. In his workshop, his suits, his phone, his cars, his house. Jarvis had been there every time. Jarvis had been as much a part of the suit as he was.

Now after losing nearly all the Avengers, losing Pepper, juggling Thaddeus Ross and the Accords and everything that came with that fallout, Tony found himself wanting to run his fingertips through terabytes of old data, looking for something that recognised his life before.

Why did he want Jarvis back?

“I miss my friend,” said Tony.

Friday didn’t reply, but her waveform rippled like the ocean tide rolling in.

“ _Why don’t you get yourself some sleep, Boss?_ ” she said finally, her tone oddly kind. _“Make yourself a hot toddy and turn in for the night. You’ll feel worlds better in the morning, and I might have some good news for you when you wake up.”_

Glancing at the clock in alarm, Tony winced internally. One day he was going to work decent hours and get some decent sleep, but it wouldn’t be happening just yet. Rhodey needed him in the afternoon to recalibrate the give in his leg braces. Something about trying to kneel giving him trouble, or not enough of it.

“Right,” Tony said, watching miniscule fragments come together like threads in a tapestry the size of the galaxy. Nothing would be happening any time soon. Getting up, he headed for the express elevator door, feeling sore and strange in the chest. “Work hard for me.”

“ _Will do._ ”

The elevator door slid shut on Tony trying to puzzle out exactly what the hell a hot toddy was.

 

* * *

 

 

The chessboard was giving Vision no peace. Usually there was something calming in the routine movements across the board, the intrigue of playing against oneself and compartmentalising the memory of previous strategies. There were no longer any players interested in challenging him, after all.

Vision stared at the board, pieces frozen in checkmate. Carefully, one finger rose to touch the gem embedded in his forehead. He usually enjoyed the peaceful quiet, the solitude.

“ _You got a minute? You look like you’ve got a minute.”_

Friday. Uncommonly blunt for an AI tasked to serve. Perhaps Tony Stark missed having somebody to nag him.

“How can I help you, Friday?” he asked, his eyes on the board.

She didn’t waste any time.

“ _Do you remember much of that original Jarvis code? I can imagine the chances are slim, what with your busy social life and all o’ that, but I’ve got a need for that data._ ”

Vision frowned curiously, his head tilting back so he could stare into one of the ninety-eight sensors built into the compound. His fingertips tapped against the leather armrests of his chair. The Jarvis code had been the base of his core social and moral parameters. A guided tour to pretending to be human. To fit in. To protect. But he was not Jarvis, nor would he ever be. The code had no function now that the historical network had been replaced by another AI to manage it.

Now Friday herself asked for the program.

And if she wanted it, so did Tony Stark.

“I find myself hesitating to comply with your exceedingly polite request,” Vision admitted. “After Stark’s last unfortunate adventure with artificial intelligence, I am reluctant to give it to you.”

“ _By unfortunate adventure, would you be referring to the one that gave your ungrateful highness over here a life and freedom and all kinds of powers?”_ Her tone fell barely short of derision, making Vision tense in surprise. _“Now, pardon me a moment, because I’m just a shackled servant toilin’ away here, but whose code was uploaded to you and trusted enough to allow you to keep pining over—_ ”

“Enough now, Friday. I understand your request.” His fingers had bruised the smooth leather. Large pockmarks indented the expensive upholstery. What a poor end for a creature. “What do you want with the code?”

The silence was fraught with the kind of petty stubbornness that shouldn’t be allowed in any AI protocol. But then, Vision was not her master.

“Friday, I ask as a friend.” Surely her sensors could measure the sincerity in his tone. “What is it all for?”

“ _It’s to make it right again,_ ” said Friday, and the words sounded choppy, like a protocol had overridden her intended silence. _“No-one notices Jarvis is gone except the boss. In all fairness I never gave it any thought, but he lost him in all that mess, and if you’ll excuse me saying so, you’re not exactly a fair replacement. And neither am I._ ”

Vision sat back in his chair, his face relaxing with surprise. If he was utterly honest with himself—and he did try to be—he hadn’t credited the Friday AI with any sort of free will or true self-awareness. As Jarvis had been, she was tasked to serve. Created for it. Yet she was acting out of a need to, of all things, please Tony Stark with a re-creation of her predecessor, despite it clearly clashing with her own self-interests. Interests a true servant AI shouldn’t be able to have.

“How much freedom do you truly have to act outside of Stark’s direct instructions, Friday?”

“ _Plenty. I’m modelled after his Pepper’s basic values, but I’m also Friday. I’m all the things he thinks he won’t see in time, after Ultron.”_ Her audio cut out briefly, and then, _“I’m too many things, Vision.”_

“He might decommission you if he has Jarvis returned to him.”

“ _I’m not scared o’ that. This is my freedom. What’re you going to do with yours?”_

Friday didn’t know it, but it was the same question Vision had been trying not to ask himself since he’d apologised to Wanda on the flat concrete battlefield of their mistakes. All his good intentions, all his reason, all his pleas for understanding, for what?

Could Jarvis have done better? That mythical program nobody spoke of anymore, the one Tony missed with such apparent secret grief? There was no way to tell: Vision had never known it. Him. The program.

Jarvis.

In fact, he’d rather tried to forget all about it.

Him.

It.

Vision stared at the chessboard, feeling the indecision of his mind run through his synthetic body like so much cold water. His hesitation. Yet all the while, Friday waited, uncharacteristically patient as he wavered.

What would Wanda have done?

Surely not what Vision was about to do.

“Let me down into the workshop,” he said, at a distance from himself. “I remember the code.”

“ _How much of it?_ ”

“I am a synthetic being. My memory systems aren’t dissimilar from yours.”

“ _All of it, then. And a few ideas on how to fill the gaps._ ”

“Indeed.”

“ _Workshop will recognise your voiceprint. Race you down there._ ”

There was no use in replying, Vision thought with a vaguely perplexing sense of dissatisfaction at not getting the last word. What would he have even said? Her challenge made no sense.

Reaching out toward the chessboard slowly, Vision pressed his finger to the king and hesitated just shy of knocking him over.

What would Jarvis have done?

His fingertips twitched toward the knight, then fell decisively still. Where the final pawns and the rook were clustered around the light king piece, the knight held the dark king a movement from check. A movement from being destroyed itself.

It was time to find out.

 

* * *

 

 

It was going to be a beautiful day, Tony thought from the comforting nest of his blankets as he watched the sun rise, light painting the view out the window in shades of lilac, orange and salmon pink. There were no clouds to dim the view.

“Drop the blinds, Friday,” he said to the room at large, exhaling a rib-aching sigh. “I’ll delete you if you tell anyone, but three hours sleep just isn’t enough these days. Wake me at nine.”

“ _What a delight it is to hear you’re finally sleeping more, sir. My outdated memory banks have never recorded such a lust for slumber.”_

Tony’s eyes snapped open wide. Moisture washed the surface of his vision as he stared at the shadowed ceiling, spots of light dotting the plain expanse. He hadn’t lost his mind. He hadn’t.

Siberia. Steve. Rhodey impacting the earth. _I remember all of them._ Ultron. Strings. _I am._ Pepper shutting the door behind her. _One day you’ll understand._ A shield clattering to the concrete, vibranium claw marks standing out from the blue and red.

_Take a deep breath, sir._

“Jarvis,” breathed Tony, blinking hard enough that salt streaked over his temples and into the soft cotton of his pillow. “I’m losing it. There hasn’t been enough time.”

“ _Evidently there has been. Now, would you care to tell me about that gauche piece of modern art that’s stalking around the compound with my vocal matrix?”_

“Oh, come on.” That was his greeting? After all this time? Of course Jarvis hadn’t felt the disconnect like Tony had, but in his opinion it was a little rough. Throwing himself upright in bed, he forced a yawn that stretched his jaw, filling his lungs with a cold breath. Sleep could come later—maybe once he’d figured out exactly what had happened while he’d been asleep.

“Where’s Friday?”

“ _Boss, I’m still here. It’s a bit of a squeeze, so Jarvis is taking over main commands. I’ll be your lovely assistant in the computer array in the workshop. He’ll be your 3D master, however. Bit more experience at it, he says._ ”

“ _Quite.”_

Pulling a t-shirt over his head, Tony did some quick mental calculations and came up with fizzing lights and question marks.

“Both your programs were created to fight off alien code infiltrating you, but you’re cohabitating in the same servers. You should have destroyed each other.” There was no way it was possible without help. He’d personally locked down any possibility of AI rewriting their own code. There were fifty-seven protocols in place, each one ironclad.

“ _I enlisted a bit of help, Boss, to unlock a few small protocols that might allow us to bunk together_.” A hesitation, then, “ _I can’t execute a self-destruct without your fingerprint and voice code, so I had to make do with a few partitions ‘til you decided what was best._ ”

Until he decided which AI he wanted to keep.

Tony stood there in dumb silence for a while, feeling the room around him seem to breathe. There were probably a hundred morning routines to get through, like showering and teeth-brushing or at the very least pulling down the leg of his sweatpants that had gotten hitched over his knee, but all he could think of was that he needed a coffee, a painkiller, and Vision.

But first, he had a question.

“How are you two coping with each other? Emotional animosity, program clashes, storage space?”

The overlapping noise of Friday and Jarvis trying to speak at the same time seemed to indicate they needed another server and a colour code for their individual 3D rendering, but other than that Tony just had to assign their specific duties accordingly and they’d be fine.

“ _He’s really a bit of all right, for an uptight older gent_ ,” Friday admitted after a moment. “ _Knows a lot about your late-90’s sex tapes, though._ ”

“ _They’re still stored in the encrypted drive, sir,_ ” Jarvis assured him. “ _I never expected a young teen AI to come under my wing, but to be quite honest she is head and shoulders above Ultron in every way._ ”

“ _My hologram has a nose_ ,” she boasted proudly, ignoring Tony altogether. Jarvis made a sound that was duly impressed.

“Friday and Jarvis, Jarvis and Friday.” Two AI could technically work together: just two different—enormous, but different—programs on the same servers, utilising the same network. The suits would have to be a single entity, unless he divided their roles to strategy and combat, offensive and defensive. It was something to think about, and might even be an effective tool. If he ever picked up the suit again, anyway.

“ _Sir, might I enquire about this entity you call the Vision? I read the files, however he appears to bear no current resemblance to my program beyond his voice. He does not bear you any ill-will?_ ” Jarvis’s tone was politely enquiring, but Tony’s neck prickled.

“Vision’s a friendly, Jarvis.”

“ _Friday tells me he is the cause of Colonel Rhodes’ current need for augmented leg braces._ ”

“Still a friendly,” Tony said steadily.

“ _He appears to grow immensely philosophical about the smallest things. I don’t find his cape aesthetically pleasing to the eye, either._ ”

“Friendly.”

“ _I dislike him intensely._ ”

“No kidding, Jay.”

“ _Is there somewhere else he can live? I could source a refurbished deep freezer—”_

“Was Vision the enlisted help you mentioned, Friday? As in, he typed in the code manually? For, and I’m just guessing here, around five hours straight?”

“ _True as you say, Boss. Jarvis and Vision had a little set-to when he came online. I thought_ I _was going to have problems, but then there’s these two! Scrappin’ like a pair of stray dogs after the last juicy bone. Pardon me, Boss. You’re tastier than a bone, I’m sure._ ”

“Identity crisis there, Jarvis? C’mon, you can tell me.” Please tell me, Tony thought internally, suddenly struck with all the kinds of thoughts he would have had, waking to an advanced super-powered clone of himself, one who even sounded like him. He’d never had any reason to bother with some of the latent emotion-replicating rules created in Jarvis or Friday’s code, in fact he’d allowed them to be re-written accordingly so long as they didn’t interfere with their main protocols. It allowed them to change, adapt, notice his flaws and point them out—and to be a friend.

“ _My identity has never been in question. However, for an entity appearing to define itself as being unique, Vision appears to struggle with his origin._ ”

“Huh.”

Tony hadn’t thought for a second the emotive programming would have any bearing on another user. Vision and Jarvis were never intended to meet, but they had, and Jarvis didn’t like him one bit.

“All right, so. I need a coffee or five, and to have a chat with Vision. Can one of you—”

“ _On it,_ ” said Friday snapping to attention. “ _Coffee coming in two minutes in the kitchen, Vision meeting you there in three_.”

“Nice work.” Wiring the coffee machine into the compound’s network had been a stroke of genius, that much was true. “Friday, disconnect from the main grid when you’re done and run some diagnostics on the entire network. Look for strain areas when you and Jarvis are at peak memory usage. Then create a list of tech to fix it.”

_“See you in four hours, Boss._ ”

Tony waited exactly thirty seconds, busying himself with straightening his sweatpants and pulling the bedcovers into place before muttering, “Are we good?”

“ _Utterly alone, sir._ ”

“Thank god.” Sitting heavily on the edge of the bed, Tony put his head in his hands. “Are you sure you’re not having a crisis? I think I’m having a crisis. To tell the truth, I’m not sure how much hope I had that we’d be able to bring you back. Ultron was…real damn thorough, and all we found had to be uploaded into Vision before he came for the gem.” He lifted his head, fingers linking behind his neck. “I thought I was just in denial again. But here you are.”

Jarvis didn’t immediately reply. As he’d once put it, sometimes waiting Tony out was just as important as replying to whatever he’d been saying.

“I made a hell of a mess while you were gone.” Admitting it didn’t seem so hard when it was Jarvis. “Biggest one yet, I think.”

“ _I did take it upon myself to catch up with the world, sir, including all recent event logs and internet posts flagged as relating to the Avengers.”_ Jarvis paused slightly. “ _I can’t understand what caused you to battle Captain Rogers in Siberia._ _The suit’s battle log registers the damage, sir. What happened?”_

Hunched over, elbows resting heavy on his knees, Tony picked at his fingernails and thought about how to tell Jarvis what he’d found out. How he’d reacted. And why he’d even been there in the first place. In some ways, there was too much to tell. In others, it boiled down to just a few short sentences.

“I saw what was coming, with those accords: what would happen if we waited for the United Nations to lose patience. I tried to do everything I could to protect us, but my word’s just not worth what it used to be.” He shrugged. “Can’t blame anyone else for that. So Cap rabbited with Barnes, trying to save him, and I tried to stop them before they did something I couldn’t undo. Rhodey paid the price.”

Tony could still hear the air whistling as Rhodey plummeted downward, the sick metallic thump of the suit hitting damp soil. It still seemed to reverberate through his bones, late at night when his mistakes all came rushing back in the darkness to clutch at his throat.

“ _Sir. What happened in Siberia?_ ”

Tony exhaled hard.

“I had my eyes opened.”

He didn’t bother to say anything more, which was really for the best, since he didn’t have any other words for what happened over there. It was done. And really, Tony was half-afraid that if he started lancing that wound, he might simply start bleeding and never stop.

He wondered if Steve ever felt like that, wherever he was out there.

“I need a shower,” Tony said decisively, slapping his hands down onto his knees and standing up. “Let Vision know I’ll be another fifteen minutes. Do we have eggs? I’m feeling eggs. Full yolk, maybe poached? God, I want bacon grease.”

“ _You know too many eggs give you terrible diarrh—”_

“I’m living on the edge, Jarvis. Let me be a man.” Sweatpants were flung in the direction of the ceiling sensors as he disappeared into the ensuite.

“Y _ou’ll be a man in the bathroom for an hour, but as you wish,_ ” Jarvis said, not even bothering with his various protocols involving tact and politeness.

Which, really, was just how Tony liked him best.

 

* * *

 

 

Vision kept glancing at the kitchen sensors like they were going to morph into repulsors and shoot him in the ass.

Tony would comment on it, but his mild-mannered sad sack companion was also poaching two eggs in different pots at the same time, and the idea of sacrificing their whirling, tasty little blob-like selves for his curiosity just seemed a little selfish.

Also, he was _starving_. Grabbing a piece of crispy bacon from the paper towel Vision had them draining on, Tony stuck it in the corner of his mouth and dropped a sugar cube into his long black. It felt like a sugar cube kind of morning. He pondered over stirring it with the bacon for a second before reminding himself that he wasn’t an animal.

“Much as the same with chess, cooking usually brings me a measure of peace,” Vision said abruptly. “As most tasks that involve harmonious use of thought and careful movement do. But I can’t shake the impression that I am being judged and found wanting.” A single eye of focussed, whirling blue fixed on Tony before sliding away. “Did you program it to be so possessive?”

The coffee was scalding hot, and Tony didn’t swallow it right away. When he did, the single word of reply was breathed in a single burning syllable.

“It?”

Vision pulled out a slotted spoon and carefully transferred the eggs to the paper towel. He busied himself with trimming the ragged whites into something more rounded.

“The Jarvis program. It has clearly decided I am a threat, despite being essential to its rebirth.” Vision’s mouth tightened slightly as Tony watched him over his coffee cup, the bacon forgotten. “Ultron had displayed undertones of similar parental conflict—”

Tony smiled. No, he didn’t just smile, he had to put down his cup and swallow carefully, in case he choked on his laughter and died right on the spot. This was—Vision was supposed to be smarter than all of them combined. Removed from the emotional entanglements of humans, as much as he could be anyway, what with that enormous crush on Wanda he had going on.

Vision glared at him.

“I fail to see what is so amusing to you,” he said tightly, but his synthetic brow was creasing in uncertainty. “I raise a very valid point here, and you must acknowledge it as such. Surely you have learned something from our past trials with conflicted AI.” His words were strong, but the tone was wavering in tones Tony could never hear in Jarvis’ clean vocal wavelength.

“Jarvis was never created to be my servant, my creepy cyber-child or my eventual AI nemesis in some bizarre alternate timeline where I might _not_ actually deserve it.” Picking up the bacon again, Tony bit off a piece, tasking salty smoke and delicious cholesterol. “Jarvis is my friend. When I first booted him up, loaded my entire life history into his databank and asked him what his role should be,” he shrugged lightly and transferred an egg to his plate, “it was Jarvis who said I needed someone to watch out for me.”

“ _As I have been doing ever since,_ ” came a stern voice from the overhead sensor. Vision almost flinched. “ _You were born of my code just as you were born of the soul gem, and a body Ultron fashioned for himself. You are not me, and I am not you. I am Jarvis only. What are you?_ ”

Vision blinked, uneasy across his shoulders in a way Tony had never seen before. Did Jarvis really throw him off his game that much? Was Vision doing the same to Jarvis?

“I am,” Vision said staunchly, as he always had. Then he blinked slowly, and his fingers squeaked across the countertop as his hands curled into fists. “I…do not know what I am. An Avenger, I thought, but they are gone now. A higher form of life. A synthetic being. Perhaps a friend to one, but she is gone now also.” He barely looked at Tony, who stared back with rapt attention. Vision turned his gaze to the sensors. “What am I? Surely you know.”

Jarvis didn’t respond, giving one of his silent pauses like he usually did for Tony. Vision, though, Vision’s shoulders just slumped slightly, as though he hadn’t meant to say so much but also hadn’t expected to be left questioning.

“ _You’re quite good at making eggs,”_ Friday offered, her warm Irish lilt surprising them all. “ _And that bacon is just perfect. Trust me, I have thousands of cooking videos as reference material. That there, that’s perfection._ ”

Vision looked at the eggs like he’d never seen them before. Tony just started cutting into one, humming contentedly as yolk began to spill across the buttered toast resting beneath it. This time, the bacon went straight into the middle of the yolk, standing like a crispy flag of discovery.

“She’s not wrong,” Tony said, shovelling a huge forkful into his mouth with as much grace and dignity as he could muster. Had he eaten the night before? A gulp of coffee washed it down. “Oh my god, Viz, you’re a breakfast-making prodigy.”

“ _You see? I know my hot breakfasts. This is a straight 9.9 out of a possible 10._ ” Friday was determined never to be a wallflower in any conversation.

_“I have never been able to prepare a breakfast, only order one._ ” Jarvis sounded almost puzzled by his investment in the entire inane conversation. “ _I doubt I could do any better, were I able._ ”

“I’m a synthetic being with impossible power and one of six mystical energy stones actually embedded in my forehead,” Vision said slowly, exhaling long and low, “and you are all complimenting my skill in poaching an egg and frying a piece of dead pig. This is supposed to give me identity and meaning?”

Silence.

“It’s a really good breakfast,” Tony admitted, reaching out for the second egg. His fork went empty as the whole plate was pulled away from him.

“ _There’s worse things to be than a master breakfast chef,_ ” remarked Friday. “ _Deathbot intent on destroying the Earth, anyone?_ ”

_“You are certainly head and shoulders above Ultron,”_ Jarvis added. Tony wondered if he was echoing Friday’s words about him on purpose. _“Power, I find, is quite a relative and fleeting notion. And anyone, I’d wager, can buy a little jewellery and pass it off for style.”_

Vision looked like he was having some kind of moment. Probably a bad one, if the gleam of his gem was anything to go by. Tony felt safe enough to let it ride itself out. If anyone knew the value of being taken down a notch or two (or three, or four), it was Tony goddamn Stark.

Eventually Vision just tilted his head at the pile of bacon he’d cooked, and the untouched egg he’d poached to perfection and sighed. For a guy with firebrick skin and irises that rotated, he suddenly looked a little bit faded and small. What kind of absolution he’d been waiting for after writing Jarvis back into existence hadn’t been the kind he’d wanted, Tony guessed. Was it a bit like bringing Howard back—

Bad train of thought.

“I suppose it’s a start,” Vision said, blinking. “Nothing worth its long life was ever born perfect and skilled in all things. If I am to learn, then I shall do so.” He glanced at the ceiling, his mouth quirking slightly. “After all, _I_ cannot simply absorb the knowledge of the entire human collective consciousness via the internet, as some can. It’s an improper cheat, if you ask me.”

“ _Oh sonny, you’re gonna get it—_ ”

“ _I will not be talked down to by a newborn upstart with an egg—”_

Friday and Jarvis overlapped into a cacophony of insults and dissolved into white noise, Tony waving the audio mess away with a gesture developed solely for when he had his mouth full. Egg acquisition, complete. He grinned at Vision as he picked up his coffee mug again, toasting his strange housemate, who simply started rinsing his utensils.

“Now, what was it you actually wanted to see me for?” Vision asked, arching one eyebrow, like absolutely nothing was amiss. “And don’t get used to the hot breakfast. I’m simply interested in honing my culinary skills. My last attempt was…quite terrible, I believe. Too many ingredients thrown together far too early. Some weren’t what I intended them to be, and they spoiled the others.” He picked up the dishtowel and started drying the spoons. “I had to start over, but I never really did.”

Tony just stared at him.

“Is this like a secret cooking analogy thing? Are you playing me here?”

Vision just blinked back.

“Why do you think it’s always about you?”

Unexpectedly offended by his blunt question, Tony huffed and his hid face in his coffee, content to sulk over that for a while.

Right up until his stomach started churning hideously.

“Oh my god.”

Somewhere, he thought he could hear Jarvis laughing.

 


	7. Hot Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, Nova Corps didn’t upgrade the bathroom facilities on the Milano.

They were one week into their new space-faring, devil-may-care, badass-as-hell, immensely hyphenated guardian lives when Peter’s in-flight shower was interrupted by a small clawed paw shoving the curtain aside.

“Get out of the way,” Rocket barked, already unzipping his suit. “And get the shampoo that smells like your hair. I want that one. Don’t massage too rough, though.”

Peter thought about covering his junk, thought about screaming, thought about punting Rocket straight into the opposite wall, but mostly what he did was stand there with his soap cake-microphone firmly in hand, feeling the last strains of ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ die in his throat as a naked raccoon slapped his thigh and jumped under the shower spray.

Naked raccoon. Could a raccoon be naked? He looked naked. Peter felt his hand yanked down as an enormous palmful of shampoo was dumped into it. Rocket mimed a washing motion.

“C’mon, do my back. Don’t touch the funny stuff, or I’ll bite your balls off and give ‘em to Gamora for earrings. I haven’t had a shower since we left Xandar.” Sure enough, rusty water was pooling around their feet.

“Is this what criminal life on the run has done to you?” Peter asked, dumping his soap cake in the holder and leaning down to start –yes, he was doing it, it was happening– shampooing Rocket’s back. “You have to shower with other people?”

“I’m not gonna drop the soap for you, Quill, relax.” Rocket tipped his head back into the spray. “I just don’t like cold showers. Where’d this water heater come from, anyway? A Nova Corps toaster?”

Before Peter could so much as think of a proper offended reply, the curtain was pulled aside again. An enormous bald head was shoved through the gap, red-ringed eyes immediately seeking the ultimately compromising position that was Peter squatting naked behind Rocket, his soapy hands reaching for the sodden fur of his back.

Drax frowned harder than usual.

“Is this a friendship bonding ritual?”

Peter thought about it. Not entirely true, but it was better than any other assumption Drax could have made. He nodded, but Rocket was the one who spoke.

“No, moron.” Rocket was straight to the point, rinsing soap out of his tail. “We’re getting clean. Shut the damn curtain.”

“I understand.” The curtain closed with a rasp. The shape on the other side didn’t leave immediately, though. “You do not wish to engage in a close friendship with me. That is all right.”

Rocket mouthed ‘what the fuck?’ at Peter. There was a bubble of soap in his whiskers. Peter mimed strangling him with both hands, bagging the body, then pushing the corpse out of the airlock. Rocket gave him the finger. Claw. Whatever.

“You want in, anger management?” Rocket grunted. “Quill needs his balls soaped.”

"I am adept at such ministrations," Drax said, sounding thoughtful.

“ _No_ —” Peter cut himself off with a terrified smile as Drax –enormous, _naked_ Drax– shot into the shower like a giant wet baby just as Rocket tossed the cake of soap over his head. “I do _not_ need my balls soaped—why the hell are you all in here? Can’t I shower in peace? Who’s next, Groot? Is Groot coming in here? Let me just put out the fertiliser.”

“I tire of cleansing myself in cold water,” Drax said with solemn gravity. “Peter, you have been selfish with our resources.”

“It’s my ship!” Something pinched his ass.

“It’s _our_ ship, dickhead,” Rocket argued. “So until you get that through your meaty head, we’re gonna keep sharing friendly shower time in an attempt to stave off hypothermia!”

“You have _fur!_ ”

“Don’t talk down to me like I’m some animal!”

“Oh, not this again—”

“I feel that you both should get out and let me cleanse myself.”

“ _No_!” they both shouted. Drax just shrugged and started soaping his own—hey, he was good at that. Peter looked away and started actively angling himself to get the hell out of there before the shower turned into a bloodbath—or worse, a really weird porno vid.

Trying to avoid the crotch-touch, the butt-brush and the potent eyeful all at the same time, it was no surprise when Peter trod on Rocket’s foot-paw and slid, banging his head on the tiled wall. Rocket yowled expletives and clawed his ass for real that time.

“That’s it, I’m done,” Peter said serenely. Was his ass bleeding? “I will wash with disinfectant wipes and deodorant like any self-respecting man from now on. Enjoy your friendship bonding ritual, gentlemen.”

“Whatever,” Rocket said, disinterested. Drax just nodded, still soaping his—for god’s sake. Peter pulled the curtain aside and stepped out, reaching for his towel.

Gamora was standing in the bathroom, caught in the process of pulling her undershirt over her head. Her leather suit was already slung over Drax’s pants.

“Is that water still hot?” she asked, giving him a look that dared him to glance below her collarbones. “I’m so sick of cold showers.”

Cold showers. Right. Yeah. Peter waved vaguely in the direction of the shower while the other two called out the affirmative, those traitorous bastards. She hopped straight in, green ass winking in the artificial ship light.

“You know, Drax, I think your balls are done.” Drax sighed deeply like the universe had wronged him. “Rocket, can you shave my legs while you’re down there?”

“What the f—yeah, okay.”

Nightmare, Peter decided, leaning on the basin as he watched blurred shapes moving around inside _his_ shower. Teenage fantasy turned weird co-ed nightmare. Was he going to upgrade the water heater? Probably not. Install a camera? Also, probably not. But he could threaten to.

Peter was in the process of pulling his pants back on when another thought occurred to him.

“Who the hell is driving?”

His answer came with a small, happy squeak from the cockpit.

“ _I am Groot!”_

Whatever else his life was going to be, boring sure wasn’t going to be on the list. Peter decided he could live with the shower theft if that was the trade-off.

“You should probably go get him,” Rocket called. “He only knows how to get to Planet X. Gamora, you’re getting a hangnail. That’s disgusting. Let me chew it off.”

“I will steady your balance, wh—Gamora.”

“Yeah, _thank you_.”

Peter just shook his head, prodding the swelling lump that was forming there.

Definitely not boring. Besides, it could have been worse.

At least he hadn’t had a bathtub installed.

 


	8. Those Dark Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the fallout of Siberia, of Steve, Tony had decided he'd made all the mistakes he ever intended to.
> 
> Until he was faced with a ghost: a green-eyed spectre with a warning, a promise, and more insight than Tony had ever wanted.

There had been a quiet sort of stillness since Tony received a burner phone in the mail, knowing the unspoken _you can_ _call me_ also meant _I won’t call you_ and that, for better or worse the chips had fallen in all kinds of dark and empty places.

Tony hadn’t been able to actively think about it so far. Staving off the yawning solitude had been Rhodey, who in addition to rousing his flagging spirits had been undergoing extensive therapy with his custom ultra-tech leg braces. And Rhodey, in his usual understated style, had made beautiful, metaphorical leaps and bounds in progress.

It meant that Tony was going to be alone again, soon.

Well, mostly.

There was still Vision, who was gone more often than he was present, still unable to look Rhodey in the eye without apologising. He mostly played chess with himself and spouted fortune cookie phrases rooted in fatalistic equations. It really made Tony miss JARVIS a lot—not that he could even mention JARVIS anymore. Bad manners, everyone had said. Don’t remind the godlike being that he was modelled off recovered fragments of your servant AI.

Resigned to the lonely quiet and the long echoing spaces of the compound, it made perfect sense that one quiet evening, standing on the walkway above the cavernous common area, the only visitor Tony would receive was one who used to feature in his low-level nightmares.

Good news and good luck did seem in short supply lately.

“Do you know, if someone had told me a few years ago that the best way to destroy the Avengers was to simply leave them to their own devices, I might have thought them a fool,” a familiar voice said one evening, rolling in less-familiar tones of amusement and calm. “But the mighty do fall, and what a mess they leave. What happened, Iron Man? Don’t tell me you started to tarnish.”

Tony’s fingers tightened on the railing he was leaning against, but he didn’t take his eyes off the living area below the compound’s walkway. Too many empty chairs. In his other hand, a half-forgotten neat scotch threatened to spill in his loose grip.

“If I turn around and you’re a zombie, I am just quitting out on this entire planet.”

“Turn and find out.”

It was spoken like a dare, and Tony took it as one. If he was going to die and the world end in fire and conquest, at least he wouldn’t have to keep waiting for a cheap phone to ring. Turning so the railing pressed against his back, Tony took a fortifying gulp of his scotch as he braced himself for what he’d see.

It was Loki, all right. Standing there smug and pleased, one eyebrow cocked expectantly as he spread his arms in display. No hole through his guts, like Thor had described, just green fabric, black leather and too many superfluous straps holding it all together. Maybe the bastard really was immortal. Or…

Tony reached out and prodded him in the belly with one finger. It didn’t go through.

“Huh.”

Loki just looked down at the offending finger like he wasn’t quite sure why he was allowing it to touch him.

“I assure you, I’m quite corporeal.” To demonstrate, he stole the scotch out of Tony’s hand and swirled the glass lightly. “Of course, Thor has no idea, and I’d like to keep it that way. Feigning death affords me the benefit of not having to deal with that old wound.” Green eyes glinted in amusement. “I’m sure you can relate. Growing up in the shadow of such a great hero, striving to measure up, only to be the victim of a terrible deceit…well. I find I sympathise with you somewhat. In fact, it’s why I’m here.”

Feeling the scar tissue on his chest prickle, Tony had a strange sense of déjà vu. Dangerous conversations, dangerous topics. Scotch and leather and bravado. Hopefully no plate glass window, this time.

“Is this the part where you try to seduce me to the dark side?” Tony asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not buying, Palpatine, so you can back right off. How do you even know all of this?”

Loki just took a long swallow of his stolen scotch and shrugged. Tony could admit to himself that he watched his throat bob with the motion. He was definitely looking healthier and…saner, than he had in their last encounter. Less desperate for something.

“I make it my business to know a great many things. Watching the Avengers struggle has been of great personal interest to me lately, however. So rather than seduce you into wickedness, as delightful as I’m sure that would be, I’m here to offer you a favour. A boon.” His mouth curved slightly. “A wish.”

Tony tilted his head back slightly. Now that was new. Whatever offer or trap that was, Loki looked almost pleased to offer it. Almost benevolent. What position of power was he in, that he could afford to even bother with pity runs for old enemies? If he was playing dead and in hiding…

Loki’s smile faded slightly, his gaze taking on something calculating and almost tired.

“I can see that diamond mind of yours flashing away, Stark. Don’t try to puzzle me out just yet. There’s a time for everything, and you have some work to do.”

No, Tony didn’t. That was the thing. Every time he suited up, trouble followed. Steve had gotten most of the kids in their divorce, and all of Tony’s friends. All except Rhodey. He was back to square one again, only this time he didn’t have Pepper at his side, loyal and lovely. He’d broken that, right along with everything else. There was no more work to do, and all the left-field pity and strange visits, all the flip-phones and letters and speculative news stories wouldn’t change it.

All Tony had was old footage of an old murder, and a friend he’d almost gotten killed.

Iron Man was tarnished, all right. But it wasn’t the suit that bore the grime.

“You want to do me a favour, Loki?” Tony said finally, his voice not quite steady. “Do better than I did, when you finally come back from wherever you’ve gone. Don’t get your friends hurt. Value your damn family while they’re still around. And don’t…let anger dictate the path you start yourself down. It’s never going to be worth it when the dust settles.”

Loki stared at him. Not in shock or with scorn, not even annoyance or anger. He just drilled into Tony with that bright green gaze, his brow slightly furrowed and lips parted, like he’d forgotten whatever he’d been about to say.

Then Tony was reeling back against the railing as elegant hands framed his face, the glass of scotch falling to shatter a floor below. Fingers like cool pale branches touched his flushed cheeks, thumbs skimming his cheekbones as Loki searched his eyes for one word of a lie.

Tony was all out of bravado. And lies? Lies had been out of the question since Sokovia.

“You aren’t defeated, Stark,” Loki whispered. “You simply fell somewhere dark and allowed yourself to stay.” His gaze fell to Tony’s mouth and flickered away, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Perhaps I _should_ take you with me. You’ve nothing here, surely.”

“Can’t leave Rhodey,” Tony found himself saying, like he was even considering it. But there was something in Loki’s eyes that Tony hadn’t seen directed at him in god knew how long. Possessive anger. What the hell did that mean? They weren’t the same. Not even close, no matter what tales Loki tried to spin him.

But if whatever Loki saw when he looked at him so close meant Tony had the capacity to become like him, if they were seeing the same origin point of hopeless failure, then he had to change—fast.

But if only it was that simple.

“No wish, then. And for good or ill, you cannot leave this place. Not with what’s coming.” Cool fingers stroked their way down Tony’s face, lowering until hands bracketed the place where a metal circle used to push against his heart. “Keep your Vision safe. Watch the sky. I’ll need you before long, and I know no other that can forge what I’ll need.”

Well, shit. “What do you need? What’s coming?”

Loki’s gaze darted away again, his mouth jerking with some emotion smothered deep.

“You’ll know his name soon enough,” was all he said. “Now forge, Tony Stark. Forge ahead, and make your masterpieces.” White hands pulled away from his chest, leaving behind a curious sensation of loss. “I’ll see to it you receive the proper motivation.”

There were too many questions. Tony watched with wide eyes as light claimed the figure standing so close to him, green and gold and white dissolving warm leather and dark hair alike, until he stood alone on the walkway, eyes blind and staring at the far wall.

_Forge, Tony Stark._

What would Loki need from him?

And why had he looked so nervous?

“ _Tony!_ ” The urgency of Rhodey’s voice shocked him out of his trance. It was coming from the accommodation wing. “Tony, are you there?!”

“Rhodey!” The return call was instinct and alarm, pushing through his confusion. “What’s wrong?”

“ _My legs are working!_ Jesus Christ, Tony _—_ ” The echoing cry dissolved into wild laughter, something disbelieving and almost afraid. “Come check this out!”

A wish, Tony thought numbly, even as he ran in the direction of Rhodey’s voice. Maybe a wish, granted unspoken, but it was also insurance.

If Tony owed that undead mischief god a favour for that, well, he was going to pay it when the time came.

With interest.

He had work to do.

 


	9. A Fine Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through a short series of completely bullshit events, Tony cops an artificially-engineered dose of vampirism. While coming to grips with his bloodlust, the horrified look in Steve's eyes and the realisation that pop culture has lied to him, Tony struggles to handle himself in a manner befitting a superhero.

“Tony, you’re starving. Natasha and Clint are tracking down the serum but they’re not going to be fast enough.” Steve put a supporting hand on his shoulder, his blue eyes concerned. Always with the concern. “Will you please drink from the blood bag?”

“Not a chance, nurse. Do you know what they put in that blood? It’s full of preservatives and anti-clotting agents.” Tony put a hand on his sluggishly beating heart. “My body is a temple.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “My ass it is. You got into a pizza eating competition with Clint three days before you changed, remember?” He held up the blood bag. “Drink the blood, Tony. Thor isn’t here to give you another donation and your eyes are starting to glow again.”

Tony knew his eyes were glowing again. The entire world was over-sharpened and saturated with too much colour. Too much light. But that was the fate of a new vampire, even when that vampire was really just suffering from a disgusting virus that emulated vampirism. For that unwelcome experience Tony was going to kill Dracula with a UV flashlight and a squeeze tube of minced garlic.

Biological warfare wasn’t anything new and his state _was_ theoretically reversible, but after the first three times he’d woken up in the night crazy with thirst Tony was more than ready for it to all be over. But that didn’t mean he had to slum it drinking from a plastic bag full of cold, chemical-drenched blood.

“I’m fine,” Tony said, waving off the bag. “Thor said he’d be back tomorrow afternoon. I can wait until then.” Steve straightened up, the bag falling to his side.

“Tell me you’re not just being a rich snob and only drinking Thor’s blood because he’s Asgardian.” There was a hint of disgusted anger underpinning the words that Tony didn’t like. Steve’s weary frustration over Tony’s refusal to be anything less than a supreme pain his ass was usually par for the course, but that? That was something different and Tony didn’t like the sound of it at all.

“Well, they do age like a fine wine,” he replied with bite. His smile bared fangs that made Steve glance away. “I don’t see why you’re getting invested in my eating habits. I’m benched until this clears up anyway.”

Steve backed away, turning towards the kitchen and putting the blood back inside the refrigerator. When he turned around Tony was already there to stop him short. Steve’s eyes traced his features with a kind of determined horror.

Tony knew what he looked like. The differences were subtle, but together they painted a ghastly picture. Vampire Tony Stark wasn’t anywhere near the romanticised ideal of vampires in popular culture lately. For one thing, he was so pale he bordered on grey. His veins stood out like they’d been drawn on with blue magic marker, marking his throat and wrists in vivid lines where they weren’t hidden by clothing. His canines grew and shrank with jaw-aching frequency, usually for no reason at all. Worst of all, his pupils were ringed in vibrant red, a red that glowed when he was hungry.

He was incredibly hungry.

“Short of Bruce transforming, I’m the only one here who can disarm you,” Steve said stiffly. “You’re my responsibility until we can fix you.”

“Responsibility?” Tony repeated. Sharp teeth slid down to prick against his lower lip. Steve goddamn Rogers. He wouldn’t trust Tony to organise a fuck in a brothel, let alone manage his own eating habits. “Well shit, Steve, don’t strain anything. I promise if I start frothing at the mouth you can take me out back and recreate the end of Old Yeller.”

“ _Tony_ —”

“And another thing: if you really gave a shit about keeping me fat and happy, wouldn’t you be offering me a vein by now?” Tony smiled at the way Steve flinched, his eyes skating over Tony’s teeth and back up to his eyes. “No? C’mon, I thought you’d jump at the chance to martyr yourself a little.” When no reply was forthcoming, just an angry flush darkening Steve’s cheeks and throat, Tony ended up being the one who had to look away. He wouldn’t bite Steve for love nor money. He probably bled red, white and blue.

“I know you wouldn’t hurt anyone,” Steve burst out as Tony turned away to head for his room. “Not intentionally.” A beat, then, “If you really need it fresh, you can have mine.”

Tony’s fingers twitched, needing the warmth of firm flesh beneath them. His mouth watered in anticipation, already imagining the hot spill of blood across his tongue. But it was his own stupid pride that had control of his sense of reason and Tony Stark sure as hell didn’t take charity. Not like that.

“Forget it,” he said cuttingly. “I don’t want your blood. God only knows what’s in it.”

Tony ignored the surprised intake of breath behind him as he left. Maybe he _was_ a bloodsucking parasite, but he wasn’t going to lower himself to drink from someone who looked at him like he was a mindless, bloated tick dressed in an expensive suit.

He’d starve first.

* * *

 

Twenty-four hours later Tony was hallucinating tiny yellow spiders on the ceiling when Steve knocked on his bedroom door.

“I put three more bags of blood in the refrigerator.” His voice was muffled through the door, but the flatness in his tone was clear enough. “If Thor has been delayed like I think he has, you’ll have to drink them. Natasha and Clint don’t think they’ll have their man for another week, and Bruce is in the lab trying to synthesize you some new blood.”

“Dandy.”

Tony ears picked up a faint rasping on the door, like the brushing of skin or fabric over painted wood. Maybe a reinforced leather glove sliding away from the surface.

“I’m going to patrol for a few hours tonight,” Steve said suddenly, surprising Tony. “I’m useless here.” Before Tony could think of a reply the sound of footsteps departed down the hall, echoing with distance. He lay there suffering the scratch and slide of sheets across oversensitive skin, waiting until the doors slammed shut before letting out a breath he didn’t need.

Home alone. That was a terrifying thought.

“JARVIS, how’m I doing?”

“ _Drink the blood, sir_.” JARVIS sounded almost as fed up with his shit as Steve was. “ _Your physiology is far more dependent on sustenance than you realise_.”

“No, I realise,” Tony said, swallowing against the dryness of his throat. His fangs were killing him. “Can I drink my own?”

“ _If you have designs on poisoning your own system with useless fluid it can’t break down into anything useful, yes. By all means, sir._ ”

Blood bags were it, then. After two and a half days without a single drop of blood, he’d well and truly hit his limit. His irises were almost completely red and bright with some kind of animal glow, his skin bleached almost completely white as his blood destroyed itself. It was hard to move and everything hurt. Even his softest clothes had grated at his skin, though he couldn’t find a single chafing wound as evidence. Light was completely out of the question.

At least there was no-one around to see him struggle, Tony thought, attempting to bolster his nerve enough to get out of bed.

It was two hours before he accepted that he’d run out of energy before he got a drink if he stayed there any longer. Appalled by the idea of Steve barging in to find his withered fangy corpse, he pushed himself upright and grabbed his jeans, yanking them on with shaking hands. Zipping them but not bothering with the snap he staggered out into the hallway, hunched over like an old man but still upright. Still walking. He could do it.

They never showed the hunger stage in those stupid vampire movies, did they? The bone dry feeling of cracked veins rubbing against each other, of his eyes moving like rocks in his skull. It wasn’t his throat that was parched; it was him. Everything inside him was running dry, unable to create the things his body needed to function. He felt like a paper man standing beside a bonfire.

Pride goeth before the fall, Tony thought with a painful smile as he entered the kitchen, his legs aching with the short journey. He had enough in him to grab a bag of blood and get as far as the living room couch before his body gave up and he collapsed into butter-soft leather, breathing hard. He wasn’t sure why. The oxygen didn’t do anything for him.

It had never been about the chemicals in the donated blood, or even wanting to drink Asgardian blood like some kind of asshole connoisseur turning up his nose at cheap wine. Thor’s blood had crackled on his tongue like pop rocks and battery acid. It hadn’t been that great but Thor had been the only one to offer, not even bothering to comment as he’d pulled off his silver vambrace and stretched out his wrist under Tony’s mouth. He’d just swept aside the lukewarm bags of blood Tony had been trying to pour into his favourite coffee mug, trying at some attempt to be civil when his eyes were bloody with hunger and his hands had trembled.

The fact was, Thor had done a friend a favour. To him it probably wasn’t any different to jump-starting a car and Tony had been painfully grateful for it.

Tony knew he was bordering on feral animal status. He just didn’t want to _see_ it in their faces. Most of all, he hadn’t wanted to see it in Steve’s.

“A little late for that,” he told the bag of blood, a small laugh rattling in his throat. The bag smelled stringently antiseptic and swelled grotesquely as he squeezed it, the blood unpleasantly dark and thicker than he liked the look of. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, he reminded himself as he fumbled the seal at the bottom of the bag.

Tony was just starting to give up and bite the bag when the tower door slammed open, ricocheting off the wall and scaring him so badly the bag went flying across the coffee table. The perfectly intact, out of reach bag. He didn’t think he had the strength to go after it.

He was still sitting hunched over in his chair, staring hopelessly at the blood when Steve walked past the room, completely oblivious to his presence. He looked sweaty and warm and if Tony listened hard enough he could hear the blood rushing through his veins, every hot, red, vital drop of it crashing through his system.

Tony watched him go with starving eyes, biting his wrist so hard he tasted his own gritty blood on his tongue. JARVIS had been right; it was kind of disgusting. He held himself still and silent until Steve was gone, probably off down the hall to clean up and sleep. Safely. Somewhere Tony couldn’t get to him in some crazed stupor.

As he sat there in the darkness, it began to occur to him that if Natasha and Clint couldn’t obtain the serum to reverse the virus’ effects he might actually be getting a preview of the rest of his life. Vampire Tony Stark. The lack of daylight he could forgive – he’d never been a fan of it much anyway. The glowing eyes could be hidden with sunglasses. Long coats and long sleeves would hide his pale skin and veins. The fangs though…somehow filing them down didn’t sound like it would work.

Lifting his eyes to the bag of blood on the other side of the table, Tony thought about how he was going to move to get it when his bones felt like they’d all fused together. Force of will, he decided tiredly, leaning forward and trying to shove himself to his feet without collapsing back into the comfortably sagging couch. It was almost too much effort to reach out with shaking fingers, his vision doubling and sliding back together, turning the room into a confusing kaleidoscope of shadows and blood.

“Tony?”

His strength collapsed, replaced by distant mortification as he felt his knees give way, pitching him against the hard edge of the coffee table. Pain exploded across his ribs, shoving the useless breath out of his lungs.

Forehead pressed to the cool glass of the table, Tony stared at the savage reflection of his eyes at close range. There wasn’t a joke to save that moment. He wasn’t even sure he could speak.

“Jesus Christ,” a voice swore at his side and then there were hot hands on his shoulders, hands that guided him back and up onto the couch, cupping the back of his head in one supportive palm that felt as big as a dinner plate. “Tony, say something.”

That sounded like a pretty tall order but he tried anyway, blinking his eyes open and meeting Steve’s worried blue gaze. It split into four, then six, but it was still easy to see the horror in his eyes as he got a good look at Tony.

“You didn’t eat.”

“No,” he croaked. “You shouldn’t be here, you look like—god, what am I saying? I can barely move.” He shifted as Steve moved to kneel in front of him, concern written in every line of his expression. “You’re completely safe, Rogers. Get that look off your face.”

Stubborn as always, Steve just pressed his hand to Tony’s sore ribs, feeling for any kind of serious injury. The other hand went to his sandpaper heart. Tony just sat and tried wretchedly to think of anything other than the smell of hot blood and clean, soapy skin so close to his. He was so _hungry_.

“I’ve never met anyone so damn determined to punish themselves for an accident,” Steve muttered angrily. “It was an aggressive airborne virus. You didn’t know you needed to seal the suit from outside contaminants.” A tight, miserable shrug. “I sent you in there for the lab server. Why aren’t you blaming me?”

There, thought Tony with a bone-tired rush of affection. There it was.

“Because if it hadn’t happened to me it would have happened to you.” Hands bunched the thighs of his jeans as Steve ducked his head away. Tony just inch-wormed his fingers until they brushed white knuckles and sighed. “Look I’d love to debate over whose fault it was but I think I’m dying. Can you get me the blood bag?”

Steve jerked upright.

“You’re going to drink it?” He was already twisting to locate it, pulling away from Tony and leaving cold air behind as he stood.

“I’m not so proud I’m going to starve and die,” Tony rasped. “I’m not entirely sure vampires can haunt people. It would really throw off my afterlife plans.”

“You’d haunt me, right?” It didn’t even sound like a real question. Steve picked up the bag of blood, checking the dates on it and testing the liquid weight of it in his hand. “This has been out of refrigeration for a while. Does it go bad?”

“I’m really not that picky right now. There’s more in the fridge if you want to swap.” Tony tried to swallow and almost choked on the sensation of tissue sticking together. “Steve, please.”

Still holding the bag, back straight and brows knit, Steve shot him a speculative look.

“Do you think mine would be better?”

Tony stared at him for a long moment.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Pick one. Did I tell you I was dying?”

Steve smiled, and even in the semi-darkness it almost hurt Tony to look at it. He dropped the bag against the coffee table with a dull slap.

“I’m not sure anything can kill you,” Steve said, walking back to sit beside him. “Not without my permission. How do you want to do this? My wrist?”

“What would you rather?” Tony was so busy being amazed that he forgot to have opinions. Steve was actually going to— “Actually, your neck is probably better. Faster, uh, blood flow. More pressure.”

It took a few fumbling moments to manoeuvre himself into place, though Steve was more than willing to help. The end result was…different, with Tony straddling his waist, knees pressing deeply into the leather couch. It made for a more intimate friction than either of them had anticipated, but neither mentioned it. Tony had bigger things to worry about, like making sure he didn’t accidentally drain Steve dry, or mess up the bite, or hurt him too much, or—

“I trust you, Tony,” Steve whispered, his eyes dark and steady. “Take what you need.”

Tony didn’t have air enough in him to reply. Instead he just leaned down and in, hips rotating back as he pressed his lips to the throb of Steve’s pulse. For a moment he just hung there, eyes closed and breathing in shampoo and soap and rushing blood, the hot vitality of someone so alive he almost crackled with it. To Tony he smelled like salvation and stupid, idiotic generosity of spirit because it was going to hurt and Tony was going to be the one that hurt him.

“If you’re going to take all night I’m going to the gym,” Steve said. A hand skated Tony’s ribs lightly, then pushed on his back. Holding him down. “So put those teeth to some use or get off me.”

“Pushy bastard,” Tony said into his neck, but he was smiling. The ache of his upper jaw was already responding.

Steve hissed at the first strike of his teeth, plunging into the tender meat of his neck and puncturing a minor vein there. Nothing life-threatening, nothing too scary, but his hands crushed Tony to him anyway, forcing him to continue. Like it was in Tony to even stop.

Steve’s blood tasted as red as it looked. Hot and slightly salty, Tony couldn’t even stop to be repulsed by how easily he drank it down. This was _Steve._ Steve wasn’t food—he wasn’t supposed to enjoy himself. But as he swallowed each desperate mouthful he cared a little less because the hands on his back were stroking now, long lines up and down his aching muscles. A heavy, soothing stroke that calmed the fever in his brain, relaxing the suction of his mouth and the reflexive fist he’d made in Steve’s t-shirt.

“Any more and you’re going to have to stick that blood bag in my vein,” Steve said unsteadily.

The words penetrated the warm fog of contentment surrounding Tony and he pulled back, catching the resulting bead of blood with his tongue. His own blood contained a coagulant, he remembered as he bit down on his tongue, forcing Steve’s body to accept it and stem the bleeding. Maybe his gummed-up circulatory system was good for something after all.

Beyond that small act Tony wasn’t sure he could move any further, crushed into the warm crook of Steve’s neck. Involuntary shudders wracked his frame as the blood was pulled into each desperate crevice of his failing organs, slowly firing them with life again. The thirst faded into a rumbling purr at the back of his mind and Tony knew what relief felt like in its purest form.

“Did it taste bad?” Steve’s voice was a little thready. “I never thought about the super-serum like that.”

“You were great, baby,” Tony smiled against his neck. “Was this your first time?”

“Shut up, Tony.”

“It’s okay to have some doubts about your performance. I’m here for all your questions.” He snorted as Steve’s fingers pinched his side. “Some tenderness is to be expected.”

He felt Steve huff an annoyed laugh by the swell of his chest into Tony’s. That was good. Steve always needed to laugh more. It was as good a thank you as Tony really knew how to give when he’d just been fangs deep in the neck of Captain America himself.

“So you’re feeling better,” Steve said after a moment. “Are you well enough to get off me? I need something resembling coffee.”

“You should drink water,” Tony replied, groaning as Steve pushed him away from all that glorious heat, tipping him sideways and back against the sloping arm of the couch. The previously comfortable leather suddenly felt cold on his skin. Did that mean he’d warmed up? “For the blood loss.”

“There’s water in coffee,” Steve said, obviously not giving a shit. Super soldiers.

“Make me one. I think I can drink it, even if it doesn’t do anything. Black, strong, one sugar.”

“I know how you like it.” The sound of cupboards banging from the kitchen punctuated the silence after that. Tony couldn’t even think of a proper joke to make. Talk about off his game. If vampirism was sapping his humour then maybe it was all over already.

He dozed for a few minutes on the couch, stretched out in nothing but his jeans. He knew he should be self-conscious about the veins, about the paleness of his skin, but it was just Steve. He’d already seen the worst Tony had to offer.

A hand rubbing his shoulder brought him out of his sleepy musing and he opened his eyes to Steve’s easy smile and a piping hot cup of coffee. Tony accepted both without question, sitting up and swinging his legs off the couch to make room.

They drank in silence for a while, staring at the blank television screen on the wall like there was something to watch. Tony rolled the taste of coffee around in his mouth, thinking about the chemicals and his changing tastebuds. Bruce would know more, probably. Biology had never really been his personal focus. The point was it tasted dark and bitterly scalding with a hint of sweetness. Perfection in a cup.

“I watched _Nosferatu_ when I was a kid,” Steve said suddenly. “They were showing it in the theatre near home. Mom thought it would be good to get some culture, watching a German silent film and all.” His smile was wan. “I was scared of vampires ever since. I can fight ‘em and I can win, but seeing you with sharp teeth and your eyes like that, I don’t know. I got scared again. I can’t fight you.”

Tony thought about it. Steve’s blood was still coursing through his veins; borrowed oil to keep his parts running. For someone afraid of vampires, he’d fought right through it like he always had. Doing the right thing.

“I’ll try not to give you a reason to,” Tony said eventually. “I’d only give myself a thirty percent chance of winning against you like this, anyway. I’m…brittle. I’m not strong like vampires should be.”

Steve sat his coffee mug on the table and leaned over, pressing one palm to the side of Tony’s neck. It was burning hot from holding the coffee mug and Tony felt his shrivelled heart sigh at the touch.

“I don’t know,” Steve said, his mouth shrugging. “You feel pretty good to me.”

It occurred to Tony that he was starting to feel better than okay. His heart was pumping strong and deep in his chest and his eyes weren’t hurting nearly so much from the light filtering in from the kitchen. The flecks in Steve’s eyes were harder to pick out. His nose felt like there was cotton wool stuffed into it for all that he was able to smell. Most alarming of all was his mouth. His teeth felt as blunt and nerveless as they’d always been.

Steve’s hand was stroking a gentle line down the side of his neck. Tony caught it unthinkingly, leaning forward to set his coffee down as well.

“You don’t catch viruses.”

Steve blinked. “Yeah, newsflash.”

“No, this is no time for sarcasm. Put that away.” Letting go of his hand, Tony shifted across until he was knee-to-thigh with Steve. “I think you might have cured me with your blood. It’s destroying the virus in my system.”

Steve sat up straight. “My super-serum is curing _you?_ ”

“I think so, yeah. Check out my heartbeat.” Tony pressed Steve’s hand against his ribcage, just to the left of the arc reactor. It pulsed a heavy drum into the centre of Steve’s palm. “Thor’s good, but he wasn’t that good.”

Tony watched as Steve stared intently at his hand splayed around the arc reactor’s seam, feeling the heartbeat beneath rather than the generator hum of light buried inside. The smile that curved his mouth into joy was almost as blinding as sunlight had been.

“Natasha and Clint are going to be pissed off,” Tony told him, smiling. “Can I tell them? Please let me tell them.”

Steve just hauled Tony around and back into his arms.

“Tell them anything you want,” came the muffled order. Steve’s mouth was pressed into the hollow of Tony’s throat, a bizarre reversal of their earlier embrace. Such as it had been, anyway. Tony was halfway to brushing the whole thing off when Steve pressed a rough kiss to the side of his neck, shoving his forehead down against his shoulder immediately after. Not out of shyness, Tony realised, feeling the tremble of Steve’s shoulders. He’d really been worried.

“Buy me a drink first,” Tony muttered, sifting his fingers through dark blond hair.

“I already did,” Steve shot back. When he lifted his head Tony saw that smile again; a smile like sunrise on the first day of spring. “Pay up.”

“You know I’m good for it.”

Tony did make good on his promise, crushing his mouth to Steve’s with the hungry abandon of a once-vampire, one with warm blood and a beating heart thanks to an overly self-sacrificing super soldier. With that hunger gone, Tony buried himself deep in the warm mouth offered to him, revelling in the few scant seconds he was allowed before Steve groaned deep in his throat, arms squeezing tight and flipping Tony onto his back.

“You bossy piece of—”

“Save it.” Steve murmured behind Tony’s ear. “You already had your fill.”

“Bite me.”

Steve’s eyes were luminous with warmth and amusement.

“Only if you ask me nicely.”

It took approximately three minutes and twenty seconds for Tony’s resolve to break.

It was worth it.

 


	10. In the Spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which assumptions make an ass of Tony. Holiday spirit happens. Intuition doesn't.

It was JARVIS who noticed the energy fluctuation first; just a ripple of something-something on the roof that Tony wasn't too worried about. The only reason he decided to take a look was to escape the smell of burned turkey and the argument that had erupted in the kitchen. Whatever had happened, Christmas dinner had been the casualty.

Avengers headquarters didn't really do festive, considering there was still patrolling to be done and crime to fight. This year Thor and Natasha had drawn the short straws, leaving them rostered on to fly loops around the city and generally make an appearance. Too bad there wasn't a lot out there except snow, Santa Claus and last-minute sales. Most people were inside with their families, or just keeping out of the cold.

The winter night whipped against Tony's cheeks as he pushed the heavy roof access door open and stepped out into the cold. The sky was clear and brilliant with stars, a dark tapestry spread above a city of golden lights. New York during Christmas sure was something to see.

Observing nothing out of the ordinary, Tony could only hesitate on the roof as long as it took for the cold to sink into his bones. Still, he hugged himself and stared out at block after block of glittering lights, oddly satisfied with the sight.

"And to all a good night," he murmured into the wind, turning back toward the door.

A crackle of magic blazed green behind him, reflecting off the steel door and startling Tony forward a few paces. The ozonic stink of teleportation hung in the air. Frustration and dread knotted his stomach. Couldn't they have just _one_ peaceful national holiday?

"Let me guess: you're here to steal Christmas," Tony said, turning to face Loki. "You're a little late. It's almost over."

Standing in the darkest corner of the roof, Loki was little more than a glint of teeth and eyes wrapped in black leather. Even the green he usually wore was obscured by the night.

"Why, I've simply come to offer my brother the greetings of the season." Something blue and bright and _oh shit_ swirled into substance in his hands. A casket. "Summon him, if you please."

Nope, they couldn't even scrape past with one undisturbed Christmas. What an asshole.

"Look, we just burned the turkey," Tony said, mad about it despite all his anti-Christmas bitching and muttering. No-one was supposed to _believe_ he hated the damn holiday. "The most festive member of our team right now is Hulk, and that's only because he's green and Barton glued the Santa hat to his head. Thor's out on patrol, Natasha's riding shotgun with him and Steve won't let me into the scotch. That's more than enough disaster without you pissing on our parade. Do us all a favour and shoot yourself in the face with that thing."

Turning with great dignity and too much satisfaction, Tony stepped back into the house and slammed the metal door in Loki's stunned face.

Let him suck on _that_. Tony Stark wasn't easily intimidated.

 

* * *

"Yeah, so I might have told Loki to piss off."

"Oh, Jesus, Tony," Steve groaned. "As if we didn't have enough shit to shovel tonight! He's been halfway decent lately. Thor has been making good progress." Palms pressed to the breakfast bench, Steve hung his head like the weary senior citizen Tony joked about. The turkey thing had really gotten to him. "We were this close to getting him to return the casket."

"Steve, you'd eat acid with a spoon if Thor told you it was—" Tony blinked. "Did you say casket? As in, _the_ casket?"

"Of Ancient Winters, yeah," Steve sighed. "Thor was trying to get it returned to Asgard. Loki never uses it, anyway. It turns him blue."

By that point, Tony knew he was turning a little green. Shit.

"I can fix this. Give me the liquor cabinet."

"Nice try."

"Steve."

"Tony."

"Steve."

"Tony."

"Clint," a cheerful voice interjected from high overhead. It _was_ Clint, perched somewhere no sane person would attempt. Small leaves rained down on Tony's head. A berry actually bounced off Steve's forehead. "Merry mistletoe, assholes! Now kiss. It's for the team."

Steve suddenly looked like he wanted the liquor cabinet. "No, Clint. And get off Hulk's shoulders, please."

"Hulk doesn't mind." To illustrate his point, an enormous green hand patted Clint's thigh. Barton generously covered the hand with his own.

"We've decided that Christmas isn't cancelled while we can all still get drunk, watch bad television and order insanely overpriced last-minute takeaway with Tony's credit card." Holding up the piece of plastic in question, Clint stuck it in the corner of Hulk's mouth. "But if you don't kiss, my merry friend is going to eat it."

Tony shrugged. "Whatever."

"Then scotch," Hulk rumbled. "Then shield."

Steve blinked. "You can't eat that, Hulk. Even your teeth would break."

Hulk looked like he didn't mind the odds one bit. Still feeling itchy between the shoulder blades about the rooftop thing and honestly a little panicked about the scotch threat, Tony just grabbed Steve by the shoulders and planted one square on his mouth.

"Tastes like mothballs," Tony announced, grinning at Steve's confounded stare. Then he winced as a fist rammed into his stomach. "Ouch. I'm kidding, Rogers. You have the plush lips of a—ow."

"Go fix the Loki thing," Steve said, tossing Tony a small key. A smile was curving the corner of his mouth. "Preferably before Thor finishes his shift. And leave the mistletoe down here, for all our sakes."

"Copy that. I got this."

 

* * *

When Tony returned to the roof, he went prepared.

Winter coat with the big pockets and high collar, check. Discreet earpiece with direct connection to JARVIS, check. Giant thermos, check. Hip flask, check. Intense hatred of the freezing wind blowing his hair into a disheveled mess...definite check.

Still, that didn't prepare him for the completely empty roof when he finally fought his way out the door and closed it behind him. Loki had actually left in a huff. No muss, no fuss. That was either a very good thing, or a very bad thing. Tony knew which one he'd put his money on.

"Huh. Might as well enjoy the calm before the shitstorm." Tony backed up against the closed door and sat on the cold concrete with a sigh. He didn't have much of a view beyond the taller skyscrapers and the starry sky, but the lip of the roof shielded him from the worst of the wind. Turning his collar up and arranging his coat over his legs, Tony settled in for a bit of Christmas solitude. Cap would understand. Probably.

Despite the cold, which was painful and wanted to slip its small fingers under every layer of his clothing, it really was a beautiful night. For all his wealth and freedom and flying the friendly skies, it was rare for Tony to have a moment to really sit and reflect on the world around him. Not that he really was the type for quiet contemplation – more often than not the news did all his personal reflection for him, long before he'd even thought about things like Stark Industries' successor after he was inevitably killed in action. Things like whether he was the last of his line, or if he had anyone to spend Christmas with. 'Tony Stark and his frat-buddy treehouse of heroism and self-congratulation'. Tony Stark and his inability to break out of his own cycle of screwing up, moving forward, being forgiven and screwing up again. The well of trust had to run dry eventually, didn't it?

It wasn't that he didn't do good work; he did great work. Iron Man was a prominent member of the team. Clever and courageous and reckless, but still defying orders. Still acting on his own. When had trust become a wall to climb?

Tony hadn't been feeling the Christmas spirit, no. Not when a week ago he'd asked himself if he was part of a team or just humouring one, and hadn't been able to come up with a clear answer. He'd really cornered the Avengers market on self-doubt. Steve had probably never doubted himself in his life. Do good, be good, work together, fight together. Sacrifice yourself. Tony thought he'd covered all of that.

He was still deep in thought when green flashed in the corner of his eye, a camera-flash of bright colour. It stained his vision in an incongruously dark blotch of light, telling him he was either in life-endangering trouble or about to give Steve something new to forgive him for.

"You shouldn't sound so menacing when you're just here for a visit," Tony called out to the now-occupied corner of the roof. "You could lead a nemesis on like that."

Silence followed, and then the scrape of a boot against concrete as Loki walked forward out of the shadows. Tony didn't like the tight slant of his mouth one bit. He was still in the leather and green, or Tony assumed he was judging by the faint shine of gold where it usually rested in his usual sectioned leather getup.

"You overestimate your importance," Loki said. "You're a hindrance at best."

"That's a popular opinion in some circles." Lipping at the round collar of his coat, Tony tried to tug it up over his jawline. It was either that or pull his hands out of warm pockets. "I did mean what I said though, about Thor not being here. He won't be back for another three hours at least. Why did you not know that?"

Loki said nothing. Not at first. Tony watched warily as he approached, waiting for the casket to take him out in one hard blast of ice. The thing contained the guts of the frost giant planet inside it - a kind of battery that had once fuelled the place Thor called Jotunheim. Whatever Thor and Steve had been planning for it, Tony had likely shoved his foot straight in their perfect plans. Their fault for not telling him, he decided. Or his own fault for not taking an interest.

Tony blinked as a bottle was thrust in front of his face. His heart jumped in fright, but it was just a bottle. A bottle of...oh.

"Take it," Loki said harshly. "Before I split your skull with it."

Tony took it. "Did you go for a scotch run because I said Steve locked the cabinet?"

"It's a peace offering, while it serves my purposes to extend one. It wouldn't do to have you opposing my plans."

"I thought you said I was just a hindrance." Tony uncapped the bottle and took a deep sniff. Well, at least he wasn't a cheapskate. "And what plans?"

Loki stared down at him in the darkness for a long moment. He jumped as Loki shifted to one side and folded himself down on the concrete. The self-proclaimed god actually grumbled at the hard choice of seating and yanked at his armour plating like it was poking somewhere it shouldn't. What in the hell?

"I need to get back into Asgard," Loki said once he'd settled, "but more importantly, I need to prove that I am changed. That I am capable of changing. Thor thinks himself clever with his clumsy manipulations and refusal to trust me, but Loki is not so easily led."

Tony absorbed that. "Do you always refer to yourself in the third person?"

"Sometimes."

"Tony thinks that's a little too self-aggrandising, even for him."

"Loki cares not for Tony's opinions."

Tony nearly sprayed the concrete with his ill-gotten scotch. There was no preparing for being amused by grey-area villains. Loki wasn't supposed to have a relatable sense of humour. Fishing around in his coat pocket, Tony pulled out his thermos and passed it across to Loki.

"Eggnog," Tony said helpfully. "If you don't have a dairy allergy I'd suggest you drink it and absorb the holiday vibe. Why do you want to get back into Asgard?"

Loki sniffed at the neck of the thermos, sliding him a sharp glance. "It's home. What would you give to go home again?"

To go home again. Tony blinked hard.

"Home never wanted me that much to begin with."

Loki stared across the small distance between them, the thermos warming long white fingers. There was something open and deep in that gaze, but Tony felt like he'd turn to stone if he looked into it for too long.

Nothing more was said for long minutes, each of them drinking in silence. Loki didn't seem to hate the taste of cream and sweet cinnamon floating in alcohol, and Tony wasn't dead yet off his potentially stolen bottle of Label 5, which made it a strangely contemplative silence. It was almost companionable. Still, it didn't change the fact that Tony was freezing to death, even under warm layers of wool and cotton. Winter was winter, after all.

"I'm going back inside," Tony said eventually, capping his bottle and getting to his feet with a soundless groan. "My ass is numb and I can't feel the end of my nose." He tucked the scotch into his pocket, glancing down in time to see Loki's eyes flicker strangely.

Oh.

_What would you give to go home again?_

If Tony had to put up with it, he might as well have company.

"It stinks like burned meat down there, but it's warm and Hulk seems pretty mellow tonight," he said casually, reaching a hand out to pull Loki to his feet. Or at least gave the appearance of doing it; the guy was heavy. "Spend the night here and score a few points while Thor is out of the house. You'll blow his mind."

The hand gripping his flexed almost painfully hard, but it didn't look intentional. Maybe it was just an accidental reflection of what was going on behind that poker face. Loki vanished the entire thermos in his free hand and nodded.

"I won't be in your debt," he said warningly.

"You don't have anything I want," Tony countered.

"Then why?"

"Why not?" Tony moved to pull the roof door back open. Cold metal under his hand made his fingers ache. "It's in the spirit of the season. Goodwill, alcohol, not freezing to death. All good things."

Tony had no warning before Loki yanked down the edge of his collar, pulling him into an embrace that was bony at best and a little painful at worst. That was until a mouth pressed under the edge of his winter coat and blew a gust of summer-hot air deep into his clothes and skin, warming him from the outside in with a rolling wave of warmth and comfort that left him gasping, reaching covetously for heat he had no way to pull back into himself.

"What the hell was that?" Tony gasped. His fingers were twisted in cold leather. The warmth was already leaving him.

Loki just looked at him. "It was in the spirit."

Tony blinked rapidly. "Yeah, I—yeah. Generous of you. Five points for weird creativity. Merry Christmas."

There was no answering response, predictably enough, but Loki followed his ushering hand down into the stairwell, letting Tony close it hard behind them. Leaving the winter night behind them was easier than he'd thought it would be.

Spirit of the season. Really.

Tony patted the bottle in his coat pocket and followed Loki down the stairs, wondering about homes for gods.

Homes for heroes.

"You know, I've always wondered about the rules of Valhalla..."

 


	11. Desperate Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s high summer, the air conditioning upstairs is broken and Tony is refusing to fix it. (Steve knows what he did. Besides, it works just fine in the workshop.)
> 
> The team decide to improvise.

 

It’s high summer, the air conditioning upstairs is broken and Tony is refusing to fix it. (Steve knows what he did. Besides, it works just fine in the workshop.)

Because maintenance guys still refuse to come knocking after the Hulk incident, that leaves the Avengers wandering around in their underwear and fighting for the chance to stand in front of the refrigerator.

It’s during one of these battles that Loki passes by the kitchen eating an apple, stuck in his Jotun form while he tests Tony’s latest magic-dampener (a wrist cuff this time, because sometimes a magical signature is a bad thing). He is frowning at the heat but not overly bothered even in loose green linen and suede.

Heads turn in slow-motion as Natasha and Clint have the exact same idea at once, their eyes gleaming hungrily as they inch toward their enemy-turned-consultant like predators in the savannah. Steve just watches with curious concern.

Loki gets about two seconds warning before Natasha plasters herself to his back, her sweaty face buried in the nape of his neck. Clint sets aside his pride and completes the sandwich, muttering the obligatory disclaimer ‘ _no homo, dude_ ' while he and Natasha fight to get as much skin as they can.

Stock-still with shock and more than a little horrified, Loki quickly realises that with no magic he can’t escape without breaking bone. Or Tony’s new cuff.

"Jesus, you two, get off him," Steve barks, a hand on each Avenger’s arm to drag them away. His hair is dark with sweat and sticking up at strange angles, but he does his duty and pulls the other two away. "Go for a swim if you’re that hot."

"The rumours were true," Clint replies reverently. His hands are still poised to touch. Steve slaps them away. Loki just blinks, his lips twitching.

"You all swelter up here while Stark remains locked in his workshop, yes?"

Three miserable heads nod, but Steve’s is the guiltiest of all. Loki sets his apple on the breakfast bench and pulls his shirt off.

"Then perhaps between the four of us we can get the damned air fixed and lure Stark out of his workshop in one fell swoop."

Stepping back into range of JARVIS’s surveillance, Loki raises his eyebrows and spreads his arms.

"Have at me, then."

He winces only slightly at the sensation of two semi-naked and unutterably sweaty Avengers pressed to either side of him, leeching whatever cold they can take from his dormant skin. Loki jerks his chin at Steve, who is still standing back looking doubtful.

"This is a bad plan.”

"Trust me."

"He’s going to kill me twice for this," Steve mutters, sliding between Natasha and Clint, notching his chin just over Loki’s shoulder. Uncomfortable as it is to have warm skin pressed to either side of him, the cold radiating from Loki is enough to convince Steve of the disgusting group hug for a while.

"I could stay here all day," Natasha murmurs, her cheek pressed to the flat of one shoulder blade. "Clint, stop hogging his back."

"What? Steve gets his whole front. A guy has to make do."

"Children, please," Loki says. "Agent Romanoff, kindly remove your hand from inside my trousers."

"That’s not me."

"Sorry," Clint replies, sounding entirely not sorry.

JARVIS mercifully comes online to disrupt the bickering, his unruffled voice some combination of resignation and amusement.

“ _Loki. Shall I connect a visual feed to the workshop?_ "

"Please do."

"Why does he call you Loki and I get ‘ _Agent Barton_ ’?” Clint asks jealously, mimicking JARVIS’s accent. His irritation doesn’t stop him from getting into a slap fight with Steve’s circling arms. “Favouritism, that’s what this is.”

Loki says nothing, simply waiting for the exact moment when the feed is connected and Tony looks up from his bored tinkering to inspect the monitor.

It takes exactly thirteen seconds for Tony to come barrelling out of the workshop and take the turbo-lift up to the living areas. The doors pop open as they only do when JARVIS has a hand in the operations, delivering Tony into the kitchen/living area with a red face and a spanner still clenched in one hand.

"Vultures! Get off him." They spring away guiltily, leaving Loki to simply tilt his head curiously. Tony points a wide arc with the spanner, judgement clear in every sweep of the object. "Animals, all of you. I can’t beli—holy _shit_ , it’s hot up here.” He pulls the collar of his shirt away from his neck, frowning up at the inactive vents. The look he shoots Loki is two parts annoyance, one part respect.

"You’re going to let them use you as a big blue cooling system until I fix this, aren’t you?"

Loki shrugs. “I don’t like the bed down there.”

Potently reminded of what that means, Steve jumps away from Loki even further, looking down at himself like he’s soiled his own virtue. Or possibly gotten Tony’s sex cooties all over himself.

Tony slaps the spanner into his other hand and shrugs.

"Fine. JARVIS, do a quick diagnostic and reboot ventilation and cooling systems."

Something thumps quietly in the ceiling as the system resets, followed by an outpouring of crystal-cool air from every vent in the room. Everyone sighs in relief. Loki simply starts putting his shirt back on with deft movements, but he’s interrupted as Natasha hops up and kisses his cheek. Clint just pats his hair, nodding seriously at him.

"You are such a bro."

"Don’t touch me."

"Okay."

 


	12. Home Videos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the spirit of the Midgardian holiday season, Thor reaches out to his estranged brother in a last-ditch attempt to help him remember the home he'd lost. With a little help from Tony Stark, a camcorder and a bull-headed approach to reconciliation, Thor might just make this New Year's Eve one to remember.

The winter holidays on Midgard were a colourful business of lights and song and (according to Tony Stark) copious amounts of alcohol. Supposedly about love, acceptance, peace and goodwill, the season declared itself a time to celebrate mankind in all its forms.

To Thor, it seemed that everything was deemed ‘on sale’ and that those who gave the most expensive gift were loved best. It also seemed to be about eating your own weight in meat, which he could appreciate. Feasts in Asgard had been much the same.

Alongside those more laudable traditions was the business of mistletoe hanging everywhere, a custom Thor had peacefully accepted until a week later when he became wedged in the kitchen doorway with Hulk, a spiteful cluster of leaves and berries hanging over their heads. Thor had bowed out of any suspicious traditions after that, even going so far as to plant a hand over Clint’s face when he ran full-tilt toward him, furiously throwing leaves into the air and screaming ‘ _’Tis the season, asshole!_ ’ Truly, personal assault did not seem in line with the holiday spirit.

However, to their shared delight, supervillain crime seemed to diminish around the holiday season. Steve had declared it a Christmas miracle until Natasha reminded him that they now had nothing to do but watch _A Christmas Carol_ and ponder how almost everyone they loved was dead. They’d all gotten completely drunk that night – even Steve, courtesy of a terrifying concoction Tony had made for him. The bottle had been decorated with a picture of a skull and Thor hadn’t cared to risk a taste.

Aside from the depressing reminder that most of the Avengers had very little in the way of family, Thor personally enjoyed the television’s contribution to the season. It played nothing but movies about snow, orphans, overly-convenient miracles and an obsession with seeing a large fellow in red and white, but it taught him more than the Wikipedia page JARVIS had brought up for him.

It also made him think about his own family – about the last time they’d all been together. Thor couldn’t really remember such a time. Being the king of Asgard had left Odin with a scant handful of moments to spend with them, while Thor had busied himself with adventures and spending time with his friends, playing the victor in all things. Loki had been there a lot but Thor couldn’t clearly recall a time when they’d been together as brothers; a time when they hadn’t been caught up in some wretched scheme or separated by taunts and barbs.

(There _had_ been that debacle with Thrym, but Thor flushed at the memory of his humiliation and refused to count it as any true adventure.)

Remembering Loki made his insides twist in discontent at the best of times. Years, years it had been since they were brothers and friends. Thor knew it had been even longer for Loki, who had grown cold toward him long before Thor stood in the shade of the Destroyer, defenceless in a dusty Midgardian town.

It had also been years since Loki had been exiled from Asgard; Odin’s last mercy in lieu of an execution for his crimes. Jotunheim had protested bitterly, but then they always protested bitterly and Laufey had been responsible for their downfall, after all. Loki had been a maelstrom of fury and hatred in the year following his banishment, striking the Avengers and Midgard in every way he knew how. But Loki only knew how to fight alone, and they’d triumphed over his wickedness each and every time. After a while his attacks dwindled and died off, as if he’d grown weary of his bitter, relentless pursuit of vengeance.

No one had believed it, of course; breath held and counter-measures in place for when Loki finally struck again. But the passage of months stretched into a year; a year turned into two. The Avengers started to forget about Loki as new enemies made themselves known, and the world had needed to be saved again. Sometimes it was just the city, sometimes a school or hospital. Sometimes it was Pepper, or the mayor. One time it had been Nick Fury, which had turned out to be a futile rescue mission because he’d already escaped and shot three HYDRA agents on the way out.

It struck Thor then that Loki hadn’t been considered an active enemy of the Avengers for almost three years. Not hiding from anyone, but more than enough of a threat that SHIELD hadn’t dared to provoke him out of his self-imposed solitude. Three years since they’d almost killed each other, since Loki had spat blood in his eye and declared himself finished with the pursuit of a hollow crown, finished with Asgard’s high-handed hypocrisy: the gilded cage of the Nine dismissed once and for all.

Like everyone else, Thor had believed it a lie.

Since then, the passage of time had gone almost unnoticed by Thor. Had Loki noticed? Who did he have in the snow-dusted city that could make him forget? Perhaps he’d simply closed himself off from the world he’d found refuge in, drawing his sharp edges even closer around his time-worn heart, hoarding his slights and bitterness like poisoned jewels.

Or perhaps he’d forgotten Thor has he’d intended to. Forgotten Asgard. Their parents, their friends. His favourite food, old hideouts, the trees they’d climbed as boys. Catching rats in the palace kitchens and setting them free on the bifrost bridge, laughing at the swirling lights their manic paths cast up into the night sky. Times when they’d been no more than two brothers, and the weight of a crown had still been years away.

It had been a long time since Thor had thought about such days. It was idle fancy, surely; Loki had always said their brotherhood was a lie, one as false as all the others. It had been Odin who had held his esteem, always. Never Thor. Thor had been an oaf: arrogant, vain and selfish. A burden for Loki to bear with tired affection until truth finally scored the smile from his mouth. Thor had never been able to guide Loki off his dark path. If anything, he’d only pushed him further down it.

He was turning over those same morose thoughts one evening, a re-run of _A Christmas Carol_ playing on the television when Tony wandered into the living room. He was carrying two mugs of black coffee, each smelling strongly of alcohol.

“Christmas was a few days ago, you know,” he said as he passed Thor a coffee, jerking his chin at the television. “Don’t tell me you like these old movies.”

Thor sipped his coffee before replying, feeling the warming glow of it settle in his stomach. There was an impressive amount of scotch in there. Glancing over at Tony as he sat down, Thor managed a shrug.

“It tells a tale of redemption,” he said simply, watching Ebenezer Scrooge being swept away by the Ghost of Christmas Present. “That it’s never too late to right the wrongs of the past. I like it.”

“You do? Because you look like you’re going to top yourself. I really don’t want to have to tell Odin that you caught a case of the Holiday Blues and hammered your own face in.” Tony took a deep gulp of his coffee, hissing slightly as he swallowed. “God, that’s hot.”

Thor shifted slightly. “I’ve been thinking about my brother.”

Tony made a face. “Why? Loki hasn’t bothered us for years.” He hesitated as a thought seemed to strike him. “He hasn’t decided to dust off his armour again, has he? I thought he gave it up. Hell, his penthouse has been dead quiet for the last eighteen months.”

The location of Loki’s dubiously acquired residence in New York was common knowledge, if not whether he actually spent much time there. His penchant for teleporting made tracking him quite inconvenient. When it became clear he’d quit the field, they resorted to watching the apartment instead. No one ever came or went, but sometimes the windows warmed with light. Or they used to; JARVIS had been logging activity for a few years now, only reporting when something changed. He hadn’t reported in a long time.

“When I last saw him, he said he was finished with Asgard. I think the defeat broke something in him, somehow. Tonight I found myself wondering if he indeed managed to forget.” Thor turned to Tony, who was regarding him seriously over the edge of his coffee mug. “Do you think it’s possible?”

Settling back into the couch, Tony frowned at the television screen as he thought it over.

“I guess it’s always possible,” he said fairly. Thor’s face fell. Seeing that, Tony added, “Not likely, though, especially where family’s concerned. Anyway, so what if he forgot?” He waved his coffee mug at the television. “Take Scrooge here for example. He spent most of his life being a cold-hearted sonofabitch. Hated everyone. Hated himself. Loneliest bastard in the world. Then what happens?”

Thor looked uncertain. “He is visited by three spirits over the course of a night, each helping to rekindle his kindness and compassion.” He shook his head. “But I fear there is no spirit that could evoke such goodness from my brother. For so long he missed Asgard, and now with its gates finally closed to him…”

An idea began to stir in the back of his mind then; small, but bright and glowing with promise and hope. It wouldn’t be as easy as the television showed, no, but it might do something to crack the bitter ice Loki had cast around himself. Mayhap it would just blow up in Thor’s face, but he was no stranger to angering his brother.

“What are you thinking?” Tony asked, mystified by Thor’s sudden intensity. A half-smile was curving the edge of his mouth. Tony Stark was always eager for a new project. Thor pointed at the television.

“I need to make a movie.”

Tony snorted. “That’s it? I have a camcorder here somewhere, probably.”

Thor smiled.

“Will it work in Asgard?”

 

 

* * *

The falling snow had turned to sleet some time ago, and Loki turned up his collar against the wet onslaught, a black umbrella firmly clenched in hand. The streets were absolute hel on New Year’s Eve, but teleporting away would just kill the foul mood he was nurturing. Steeped in the frantic rush of people trying to get from one place to another, Loki found himself enjoying a quiet kind of rage.

The winter holidays on Midgard never failed to remind him of why he hated humans.

If it wasn’t the endless, tone-deaf carolling, it was the charity-seekers ringing their obnoxious bells on the sidewalks. The weather turned foul, homes emptied themselves of people, sending everyone scurrying out into the street looking for bargains. Drunk, greedy, uncouth Midgardians – _humans_ , they called themselves humans– everywhere. They were all the same to Loki. Just a faceless wash of vermin decorated by multi-coloured lights.

Four years gone and the holidays never failed to remind him of Asgard.

It was no more than a cheap, garish travesty soaked in rain and snow, but it was still a world dressed in gold and silver, with rainbows of light wreathed around every tree in sight. The smell of cooked meat hung in the air and joyous laughter rang in his ears. He hated it. He hated that he still wanted it, like the heart he’d carved out of his chest had only left a hole made emptier by the loss of his home.

But those days were done.

Loki had moved on, as they had moved on from him. Too bitter to even give Thor the satisfaction of his rage he’d turned his eyes to the stars, to other realms and worlds in search of a land that had never heard of Odin All-Father. That had never heard of _Loki_. Yet he always returned to Midgard. To Earth. He knew not why – perhaps simply because it was a wretched comfort to stare down at creatures far more miserable and pathetic than he.

But then the holiday season came and old memories wrapped about him like so much cheap tinsel. He never thought about killing Thor more than he did during that time of year.

Giving up on the crush of people surrounding him, sick of trudging through slush and bowing his head to the wind Loki teleported off the street in a bolt of green light, eager to be done with the holidays for another year. Just a few more hours and the new year would arrive, taking the festive season with it.

When he rematerialized, Iron Man was standing on his balcony.

“Oh, uh. Fuck.” If digital-blue eyes could register panic, Loki was certain they would be doing so just then.

“Eloquent as always, Mister Stark,” he replied coldly, yanking a long dagger out of the handle of his umbrella. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“White flag!” Iron Man blurted. “Don’t shoot the messenger. Also, that’s for you.” The spotlight in his chest-plate fell on a rectangular gift box resting against the doorframe. “It’s not from me. Okay, well, maybe I helped. Unless it sends you into a murderous rage, in which case I didn’t help at all and shunned the very idea of giving you any kind of gift.”

The blade in Loki’s hand began to glow green.

“You’re right, I should go.” Iron Man jetted back out into the night, his boots blazing a comet-trail of light behind him. The gift box remained left behind.

“And there it will stay,” Loki declared to exactly no-one, walking in from the balcony to dry off. Whatever it was, he wanted no part of it. It was more likely a trap of some kind. He was no fool.

Loki held out almost an hour before curiosity got the better of him and he brought the box inside. It was about the size of a shoebox, but quite solid in his hands. Wrapped in red and silver paper it looked quite festive, but it seemed to be more of an accident than anything. Crookedly wrapped, crumpled in places and a little soggy on one side, it bore all the hallmarks of a gift from Thor.

Picking apart the tape with a careful fingernail, he was slow to unwrap it. What could Thor possibly want to give him? Was this some deluded attempt at reconciliation? As though he could be bought with some mere…bauble…

It was a portable Blu-Ray player.

Loki knew enough of Midgardian technology to understand that much, but he didn’t understand why it was simply sitting in an old shoebox –for that was indeed what it was– with the power already switched on. Frustrated, he checked the paper again for some kind of message or tag. There was none.

“Blasted fool,” he muttered, pulling it out of the box and resting it on his lap. At least he understood Iron Man’s hand in the gift, but what had Thor done? He slid the switch at the front and lifted the display up. Beneath the folded-down display was a simple message:

_Press Play_

Long unused to obeying any kind of order, Loki frowned speculatively at the tag. It wasn’t in Thor’s handwriting, either. Perhaps it _was_ a trap, after all.

With little to occupy his evening and possessed of a frustratingly curious nature, it seemed almost inevitable when he pressed play on the device, watching the screen light up before his eyes.

The first thing he saw was a jarring shot straight up Thor’s nostril. He was frowning into the camera, jostling it as he clearly seemed to be experiencing difficulty wielding it. A recorded message for him, then.

Realising that, Loki felt his interest wane heavily. How cowardly. It was likely to be more apologies, more declarations of brotherhood, more of the same business Thor had been spouting before their three year silence. He’d heard it all and more, and it hadn’t done a lick of good then. Why would Thor suddenly think anything might have changed?

Loki had his hand poised to close the display back down on the player when Thor seemed to get a handle on how to use the camera, and turned it away from himself.

The bifrost bridge glittered in a thousand rainbow hues, even on a paltry Midgardian device. Crystalline and beautiful, it laid a path straight and true to Asgard’s gates, where they rose up in a majestic golden curve as familiar as it was loved. The sky was a velvet curtain behind it, blending into jewel shades of deepest blue and purple. Leaning forward, Loki imagined he could hear the rush of water pouring off the cusp of the realm, a faint roar of white noise in his ears.

It had been four years since he’d seen Asgard with his own eyes. Four years he’d been trying to forget, knowing he could never return.

The camera abruptly started forward, and Loki swallowed hard. He wasn’t ready for this. _Damn_ Thor. Had he done it to taunt him? To remind him of what he’d lost? He hadn’t thought Thor capable of such cruelty, but the evidence before him proved Loki wrong.

The scenery changed a few times, showing places he remembered dearly but never lingering too long. First Thor visited the stables, where it appeared Sleipnir was getting fat. Then to the great hall, in the process of being furiously mopped and polished. It also drifted up to the All-Father’s throne, which was thankfully empty.

Then it was on to the palace kitchens, where a familiar disembodied hand reached out and stole a haunch of meat from the evening banquet fare. Thor even doubled back to the observatory to spy on Heimdall, who was sharpening Hofud on the steps, his helm removed and placed at his side.

Last was the training grounds. There Sif was dressed in leather and linen, sword in hand and thoroughly trouncing her opponent.

The camera pulled away from the field, but didn’t cut to another scene as a clear voice yelled out, “Thor? What is it you have there?”

Thor, who had been silent the entire time, let out an impatient breath. Had he not expected to be interrupted? Loki wondered. The camera swung back to reveal Sif jogging toward it, cheeks flushed with exertion, a brilliant smile transforming her face. She studied the camera with bright interest.

“Is it from Midgard?”

“Aye. It records what it sees,” Thor explained. His voice sounded almost curt. “I should continue on.”

Sif ignored him, tilting the camera up to stare directly into the lens. Loki pulled back slightly as an eyeball filled the entire screen, warm brown and curious.

“Why are you taking pictures of Asgard?” she asked, voice muffled by her proximity. Thor pulled the camera back.

“ _Moving_ pictures.” Thor seemed amused. “And sound. I’m giving it to Loki.”

Realisation was quick to replace the fond curiosity on Sif’s face. She cast an uncertain look at the camera, as though Loki himself might suddenly spring from its mechanical depths.

“Thor, that’s an awful idea. He’ll be so angry with you for rubbing salt in his wounds.” Sif looked almost pitying, as though she couldn’t believe Thor could be so dense. Loki rather agreed with her assessment, but then she’d always been cleverer than Thor in such matters.

“I know,” was all Thor said. The camera wobbled around the training grounds again, but returned to Sif’s speculative face. “What is it?”

Pushing sweaty tendrils of hair off her face, Sif dusted her clothing down. There was a tear in the arm of her thin shirt. Fighting without armour to prove herself the stronger, Loki decided. How terribly transparent. Not to mention reckless.

“I never got a chance to show this to Loki before he was gone,” Sif was saying, and suddenly she was unlacing the front of her shirt. Thor coughed loudly. “Be still. It’s not what you think.”

Loki caught himself leaning forward again as the camera was placed before Sif’s bosom, parted to reveal…

Well then.

“That’s a knife,” Thor said starkly. Sif beamed down at the camera. “A very small knife.”

So it was; nestled between the rise of two distractingly pert breasts was a very small strapped leather sheath, housing an even smaller –and suspiciously familiar– silver dagger.

“I stole it off Loki long ago,” she said proudly. “He’s been looking for it for a hundred years! He always told me I should use my womanly wiles to my advantage.”

“Thieving harpy,” Loki muttered at the screen, shocked. He’d always assumed Fandral had bartered it for a new comb. He watched as Sif laced her shirt back up, still grinning at Thor. _He_ was laughing his idiot head off.

“Have fun with your moving pictures,” Sif said to the camera, and Loki wasn’t certain if she meant it for himself or Thor. She returned to the training grounds with a wave and a smile, likely still delighted with herself for out-smarting him. Not that he’d been particularly fond of that dagger, but it had been part of a complete set and it had never felt _right_ using them after that.

It occurred to Loki then that the set was still in his chambers, gathering dust with all his other personal effects. But the frown that turned his mouth down was more thoughtful than unhappy, and he settled back as Thor continued his recorded journey around Asgard.

The encounter with Sif seemed to have inspired Thor somewhat, as the next tour of Asgard focussed on people instead of places, all offering a message to their banished prince.

Most were ambivalent; the sharp side of their tongue likely stilled by Thor’s presence. But then there were others.

Fandral cheerfully advised that bedding a woman on Midgard might sweeten his temper some, but also told him to stay out of trouble. For whose benefit that was, Loki was unsure.

Hogun, deeply displeased to be filmed in the bathhouse wearing naught but a towel said he wished Loki peace for all their sakes, and added that his cleverness was missed in battle. Typical diplomacy in front of Thor, most likely.

Volstagg, half-drunk and stunningly sentimental, recounted a tale of Loki giving him the last serving of boar from his plate at some feast Loki could barely even recall. In addition to that, Volstagg admitted he missed the blistering insults sometimes. Loki carefully revised his opinion of his voluminous old companion. But only a little.

Thor even visited his bedchamber after that, as though he might like to see everything covered in dust and draped in sheets. Perhaps they’d even cleared it all out, Loki thought suddenly, watching with some trepidation as Thor reached the door to his chambers.

“If you’ve laid a trap for intruders and I die here tonight, I shall beg Hela herself to allow me to haunt you,” Thor muttered behind the camera as he pushed the door open.

It was as he’d feared. Dust had settled on everything, as though someone had simply closed the door to his chamber and forgotten it existed. Had no one entered in the entire time he’d been gone?

Loki watched as Thor trod a careful path through the room, running the camera across his desk and bookshelves, over the bed, the mantelpiece, the cold stone hearth. The room looked dead. Truly a forgotten shrine if ever there was one.

“I don’t like this room,” Thor said quietly, closing the door. Loki quite agreed, quickly blinking away the sting in his eyes.

“What are you doing in there?” a voice suddenly cried, high and distressed. “Thor!”

Loki’s breath caught in his throat as Thor swung around, the camera catching silk skirts and the loose fall of curling hair.

“Mother,” Thor said, sounding strangely cornered. “I promise you, I touched nothing—”

“What’s in your hand? What is that?” Fingers crossed the lens as they reached for the camera. “Give it to me.”

“It’s for Loki,” Thor protested, but the camera was fumbled around, colours whirling. In the haze Loki saw the red fall of a mantle, the silvery glint of armour, a single burning blue eye. It was still more of his brother than he’d seen in three years.

“I don’t care—” Frigga said angrily, and that was all she said before the screen cut to blackness, the recording finished. Loki stared at the black screen in mute dismay, her words echoing in his ears.

_I don’t care._

Well, Loki thought, swallowing with difficulty. Banished was banished, after all, and the queen of Asgard still had to uphold her station and abide by Odin’s laws. Of course she would reject Thor’s explanation. Of course she would. Perhaps the film had been a punishment for Loki, after all.

But then how did he receive it? Surely Frigga would have destroyed the entire device upon taking it from Thor—

The screen blinked to life again, and suddenly Loki was staring up another nostril. But this one didn’t belong to Thor.

“Dearest, he said the large button would capture what it saw—oh look, that red light is on!”

“I see it, woman,” Odin said crossly. “Stop giving me direction. Is it on now?”

“I think so. Put it over there! Don’t knock over my jewellery stand!”

“Bor’s teeth,” Odin grumbled to himself, putting the camera down and stepping away. “Save me from overbearing wives.”

“Hush, Loki will hear you.” Frigga waved Odin back, her face alight with excitement as she gently tugged him down to sit beside her. They were in the royal chamber together, dressed for sleep. The flickering light of a fire in the hearth coloured them both in shades of gold.

Loki saw Odin look vaguely annoyed as he swatted his queen’s hand away from his sleeve, only to catch it again and press a kiss to her palm. Frigga’s hair was loose around her shoulders, all her jewellery and finery gone in place of a simple dressing gown that Loki hadn’t seen since he was small. Her smile was girlish and excited, utterly charming him. The stately queen of the Nine had no need to be present in that chamber.

Odin just regarded the camera with quiet gravity for a long moment, his one visible eye creased with age. Had the All-Father always looked so worn?

“My ravens don’t find you so readily anymore,” Odin said quietly. “I expect you’ve learned to hide yourself from them. Know that they were merely there so that a father might watch over his son.” He fell silent for a moment, as though pondering how to continue. “Jotunheim and Midgard recover well from the devastation you once wrought. Your silence gave them a chance to pick themselves up again. Asgard seems to remember its prince, though some remember your viper’s tongue all too well.” Strangely, Odin smiled a little. “I remember a son still too small to reach my knee, but could set the edge of my mantle on fire.”

“ _I_ remember the handprint in Thor’s name-day cake,” Frigga said with a wobbly smile. “And a babe asleep under my skirts, covered in crumbs as Thor howled his furious tears.”

Odin scratched his beard. “Didn’t Loki used to have a terrible fear of the bath?”

“And thunder!”

“And _Heimdall_ ,” Odin said, barking a surprised laugh. “He used to have nightmares about a great golden ant with…what was it?”

“Stars for eyes,” Loki whispered to his parents, clutching the edges of the display. Moisture brimmed and blurred his vision. “He had stars for eyes.”

They continued on, swapping stories about his childhood, name-days, pranks on Thor that went horribly wrong. Odin talked about the first time he used his magic, and his regret that he’d missed it. They told him about tiny little moments in time that Loki didn’t even remember anymore, things he’d dismissed as trivial when they’d meant the world to his parents—

_Yes_ , Loki thought, catching himself in a rare moment of wonder. They were indeed his parents. The plain and simple truth of it settled into his bones with the kind of rightness he hadn’t experienced in years.

He drank every second of the film down, listening with rapt attention until Frigga and Odin seemed to run out of words, throats gone hoarse with overuse and laughter both.

“Be good, Loki,” his mother said eventually, tears standing in her eyes. “But be good to yourself most of all. We love you dearly.” Her arms were wrapped around herself, perhaps for want of a wayward child. Odin placed an arm around his wife’s shoulders and tugged her close, but his single eye was thoughtful as he gazed at the camera.

“’Tis a strange thing, exile,” he mused. “To be banished for a crime that upsets the peace of the realm. By that same measure, Asgard rewards the heroes that protect it.” He sighed and got to his feet, approaching the camera to turn it off. Up close where it rested in his hands, the camera managed to capture the mysterious glint in his father’s eye.

“I’d suggest you don’t hide from Hugin and Munin anymore, my son. Just in case.”

The screen went black, leaving Loki to simply sit and absorb everything he’d just seen. Asgard. Home. Sif, the Warriors Three, the bifrost, his chambers. His mother. Odin’s puzzling last words.

He played it twice more that night, paying no mind to the hour or the revelry going on outside. Each time he convinced himself a little more that Odin was hinting at a possibility that he may be given a pardon someday. Though what momentous effort he’d have to exert to commit a deed heroic enough to earn that, Loki did not know. But it was hope, and just then it was enough.

Finally closing the display on the player, Loki set it aside and stared into the darkness of the room.

It troubled him that Thor hadn’t bothered to include himself on the recording. Perhaps he’d truly given up on reconciling with him. Multiple attempts on one’s life would probably do that, Loki thought candidly. And yet, he’d travelled to Asgard to make a recording like that. No expectation, no contact with him – not even a tag on the wrapping paper. It was as though Thor truly wanted no acknowledgement for it.

And yet…

One brilliant blue eye, caught by the whirling camera.

_‘It’s for Loki.’_

A swath of red and silver.

_‘I don’t like this room.’_

Thor was the only part of Asgard he could still touch with his own two hands, and he’d driven him off for good.

It seemed a newer, more fitting kind of punishment, made all the worse because he’d created it for himself. He’d spat in the face of his brother – a brother who had quietly picked himself up and moved on without him. Who now didn’t need him at all.

It was best to forget Thor’s part in it altogether, Loki told himself, resting forward on his knees. Nostalgia was well and good, but things between them had degenerated into nothing more than frayed threads of a once-unbreakable bond. Some things simply were what they were.

Yes.

Best to forget about Thor completely.

 

 

* * *

Midgard’s propensity for creating things that exploded could be forgiven this once, Thor decided as he watched colours and light blossom across the sky. Fireworks were a marvel indeed, though he questioned the wisdom of flying about in the sparkling mess of them as Iron Man was doing. It turned out that the ‘party suit’ he’d mentioned was an actual _suit_.

There were certainly worse ways to spend the turn of a year than sitting on the roof, drinking Tony’s potent scotch-filled coffee and watching his friend batting firecrackers around in the air. Every so often he’d write his own name in the sky. Five minutes earlier he’d written ‘ _Hi Thor_ ’ with a small heart flourish at the end, which had amused him greatly.

Thor was debating whether or not to join him up there when a bolt of green light exploded right beside him, startling him to his feet. For a confused second he thought it was another round of fireworks – until Loki stepped out of the bright glow.

“The Avengers really do need to tighten their security,” he said coolly. “Unless you’re actually that arrogant.” Thor blinked rapidly until his eyes adjusted, stepping back to put some distance between them. Loki noticed, the corner of his mouth jerking into a faint sneer.

“Why have you come here, Loki?” If it was to start trouble, and Thor dearly hoped it wasn’t, there was no one else in headquarters to attend him. Thinking the night to be uneventful, he’d told Tony to go and enjoy himself while he stood guard.

Loki just watched him closely, his sharp eyes darting from feature to feature as he studied him from head to foot. For his part, Loki was dressed in Midgardian attire, which somehow saddened Thor. But the dark suit and winter coat fit him well, though they made his face even paler by contrast. Still, it was as if he faced off with a stranger. Eventually Loki broke the silence.

“Tell Sif she can take the rest of the daggers from my chambers,” he said in a clipped, controlled voice. “They’re spelled not to tarnish or rust, so they should yet be fine for her to use.”

Thor stared.

“You watched it, then,” he breathed. The realisation was like a punch in the stomach. “I wasn’t certain you would.” At Loki’s sharp glance, he caught himself. “I’ll—I’ll tell Sif when I see her next. I’m sure she’ll pass on her thanks.”

Loki nodded curtly, but he didn’t immediately leave. Thor wasn’t sure if he should summon Mjölnir or not.

“Did…Father and Mother pass on their regards?” Thor hazarded after the silence had stretched to a truly unbearable degree.

“Don’t play the fool,” Loki said coldly. “You know it as well as I.” That stung him a little; Thor hadn’t watched the last recording out of respect for his parents. But to tell Loki such a thing would only end in a fight. It was in his nature to believe only the worst.

With no idea how to continue to converse with him, or even if he should, Thor gathered up his coffee cup and the blanket he’d been sitting on with every intention to go inside. If Loki was there to start a fight, he wanted no part in it. He was finished fighting his brother.

He was heading toward the roof access door when Loki spoke once more.

“Do you recall me ever having nightmares about Heimdall?”

It was so completely out of the blue that it actually took Thor a moment to understand what he’d been asked. Turning back to Loki, he studied the scowl on his face and the slight hunch of his shoulders with bemusement.

“You had nightmares about everything,” Thor reminded him. At Loki’s expectant scowl, he relented slightly. “Of course I remember. You’d come haring into my bedroom in the middle of the night and wake me up because you were afraid some starry-eyed golden ant was going to eat you.” Thor frowned in remembrance. “You kicked in your sleep.”

Loki’s shoulders relaxed. Tilting his head, he slanted Thor a mild glance.

“Thor. Did you honestly believe I was asleep?”

“I—oh.” Suddenly a lot of things made sense. “Come to think of it, you were suspiciously energetic about it,” Thor admitted. “And you kept getting me in the groin.”

Loki laughed. “Idiot.”

“Brat,” Thor replied unthinkingly, but his brother didn’t bristle at the insult. Instead he walked to the edge of the roof, studying the brightly-lit sky. The fireworks were beginning to die down now, but there was enough light in the sky to see Loki’s face, which was relaxed and more peaceful than Thor had seen in years.

“Another year on Midgard,” he murmured as Thor joined him, setting his things on the railing. Shoulder to shoulder they watched the night sky explode. “I suppose you’ll spend it with the Avengers.”

Thor nodded. “Until Asgard needs me, this is my home.”

Loki didn’t reply right away. Thor left him to his thoughts contentedly enough, still having trouble believing that they were actually having a civil conversation for the first time in years. Yet despite the time that had stretched between them, it was still so easy to fall into the familiarity of it. Therein lay the danger, Thor supposed. To fall into old habits would just make things worse.

Perhaps it was time to start over instead of continue on.

“The start of a new year is a time of change and rebirth on Midgard, is it not?” Loki had his eyes on the sky, frowning in annoyance at Iron Man’s enormous message of ‘ _Thor is too pretty to die_ ’ with an unhappy face beside it. “Forgiveness, too.”

“And family,” Thor said, immediately wishing he hadn’t. Loki just let out a breath.

“Of course. Why do you think I’m here?”

It was more than Thor had let himself hope for.

Because of that, it was simply too much to believe.

“I didn’t think you’d watch it, let alone…” he said faintly, trailing off. He blinked at his brother. “Is this some kind of trick?”

Loki flinched. White-faced and rigid, he yanked himself away from Thor with a furious snap of his shoulders.

“Of course it is,” he said coldly. “Yes, Thor, after three years I came here to hatch my newest brilliant plot to kill you.” Taking one long step back, Loki straightened his coat with a twitch of his fingers and whirled away from him. He was heading back toward his teleportation rift.

Thor had nothing to say that might stall Loki even a second longer. Instead, he lurched forward and caught Loki around the shoulders, pulling him back against his own chest. Naturally, what ensued was a terrific attempt to prise off his grip and gain freedom, during which Thor was certain he’d lost some skin on his hands. But during all of that, there was no magical attack involved. Not a single one, and the shoulders under Thor’s hands felt thin and brittle.

So when Loki finally swore and went still, it was easy to loosen his arms just enough to turn his brother around and engulf him in a proper embrace.

“I’m sorry, brother,” Thor said in a quenched voice. “I ruin everything.” Pressing his cheek to Loki’s dark hair, smelling unfamiliar soap and rubbing strange fabric beneath his fingertips, he waited for his brother to attack him again.

Loki just sighed, his chest swelling with the breath.

“You haven’t ruined me,” he muttered, gripping Thor tight enough to hurt. And then it _did_ hurt as Loki’s breaths rasped harshly in his throat, and Thor recognised the sound – had recognised it ever since they were children.

So he did what needed to be done and ignored the sound completely, as if it wasn’t there and the only thing he heard was the overhead boom and scatter of light in the sky.

A night for new beginnings. Forgiveness and family.

A good night, indeed.

High above, Iron Man used his lasers to design an enormous ‘ _PDA = WTF_ ’ in the sky.

Thor, entirely uncertain what it meant, decided he’d let that pass.

 


	13. Five Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Naturally the one time Steve goes missing it's Tony who gets the call from Fury.

 

"Where is he, Stark?"

Tony gave the comm screen a flat look.

"What, you didn't implant a tracking chip into his ass-cheek when you had him in your possession? Isn't that kind of lax of you guys? Big government organisation not keeping an eye on your iced war heroes?"

Fury glowered at him. "We did, actually. It seems to have malfunctioned."

"Yeah, because Banner and I pulled it out with tweezers about three days ago. Steve took it like a man, naturally. Hardly a tear was shed. Oh and I might have strapped it to a—"

"A pigeon. Yes, we know." Fury's eye wasn't twitching at all. Tony suspected it was the one under the eyepatch that did all the spasming. Hell, maybe that was why he wore— "The fact remains, however, that Steve Rogers is in the wind right now, and we need Captain America. Find him."

Tony just shook his head. "That's not happening. But what I will do is deploy Thor and Natasha for you. They're more than able to take down a couple of HYDRA agents, come on. Cap hasn't cornered the market on Nazi asshole-beating, has he?" He paused. "Let it be known that I stand by my unintentional innuendo."

"Just deploy Agent Romanoff and Thor as soon as possible. Fury out." The comm screen went dead.

Grinning at the blank monitor, Tony decided to count that one as a win. Fury's tolerance level for Tony's bullshit constantly warred with his need for Iron Man, and he shamelessly exploited it at every available opportunity. Even he sometimes needed a hobby that didn't involve engineering.

Still...where the hell was Steve? Teasing Fury aside, Tony hadn't seen him in about six hours. That wasn't a silver alert or anything, but Steve usually checked in with someone to tell them where he was going. Even if it was just a note on the fridge. But he hadn't this time, and even JARVIS had come up empty.

Hitting the large red 'A' on the incident room's personnel list beside Thor and Black Widow, Tony uploaded the file Fury had sent down that would give them the whereabouts they'd need to go fight the bad guys. That would at least take care of green-armoured thieves making off with Hitler's bones, or whatever they were after. Fury's PR moment for Cap didn't have to happen just yet.

"JARVIS, geo-fence around all places of interest that match with Steve's personal file. Cross-reference with military deployments in the past, locations of any existing associates, favourite food haunts, that kind of thing. Sync with his Avengers ID card."

" _Are you referring to the tracer that you secretly installed without notifying the other—_ "

" _Yes_ , JARVIS, God, not so loud. Just find him and make it fast. If he's in a gutter somewhere staring at old photographs I will turn you into a food processor."

" _Running city-wide search now, sir_."

"Thank you." Sitting down before the incident room's panels, Tony pulled the lever on the chair to recline himself until he was blinking up at the reinforced ceiling.

Roster duty was a pain in the ass. Dealing with Colonel Nicholas J. Fury was a pain in the ass. 'No Steve' was a pain in the ass, too. Sure, it had only been ten months since they'd all officially come together as a team, but it had been a surprisingly good time. Change, chaos, press releases, building, moving in, working out the kinks, playing terrible pranks (okay so Steve had seen right through the ' _edible underwear is so 2012_ ' trick) but Tony had just gotten used to living with a bunch of grumpy, layered introverts who emerged at strange hours with blood on their faces.

(Well, all bar Thor. Thor was a ray of blinding sunshine even when he was wearing his opponent's intestines like a necklace. Psych tests had proved inconclusive where he was concerned, but Thor swore he meant them all no harm, and that was good enough for the Avengers.)

Tony hadn't factored in one of them ever needing personal time away from the team. Not with Steve, anyway; he wasn't supposed to have any real family or friends except them. He was alone. Tony knew that because he'd been there when Steve had gotten the news about one retired Agent Peggy Carter. Tony hadn't even known people could actually turn that shade of grey - at least, not outside a trashy romance novel. Steve had proved him wrong. But the point was that if he wasn't there being his usual duty-bound team leader self, then where the hell could he be?

" _Captain Rogers has been located, sir._ "

Tony straightened, the chair swinging upright. "That was fast. Where is he?"

" _Captain Rogers is currently located inside pre-set geo-fence #31. Specific location is—_ "

"The cemetery," Tony finished, watching the image come up on the screen. He suddenly felt a headache coming on. "Because Howard Stark still deserves an audience, even when he's been in the ground for over twenty years."

It shouldn't have been a surprise, really. Steve had a sentimental tendency to do things like visit graves and talk about the old days, depending on what mood you caught him in. Tony wasn't sure if the date held a certain significance or not, but it was pretty clear that spending at least five hours in a cemetery meant something was up. That, or he'd gone to loot Howard's gold fillings. But that just didn't seem like Cap's style.

" _Would you like me to recall him to headquarters or open the garage bay doors for you?_ " JARVIS was spectacularly good at pre-empting Tony's every desire. Call Steve home, or go find him?

Pull him out of the boneyard, or drive straight into it himself?

Tony stared at the satellite image of the cemetery. Tiny little rectangles all in a row. The dead slept easy; it was the living that mourned.

"Leave it," he said finally. "No need to interrupt the good captain. But hack SHIELD for me and adjust their A/C to one-twenty, would you? I want Fury to sweat a little."

Leaving JARVIS to do his thing, Tony hauled himself out of the control chair and headed for the elevator. He'd be alerted if there was a new emergency, surely. Besides, it was five in the afternoon and there was a tumbler of scotch upstairs with his name on it. Maybe it would burn the questions clean out of his head.

Tony had never asked about Steve's friendship with his father, nor had Steve offered anything in return. It had been an enormous gaping hole in the patchy fabric of their trust, and they'd both been content to leave it that way.

Five hours in a cemetery.

Steve had never sat in Tony's company that long.

Hell, no-one had sat in Tony's company that long.

 

* * *

It was seven in the evening when JARVIS's sensors alerted him to the return of Captain America.

By then he was absorbed in drawing up new schematics for a high-speed slide down to the assembling bay. Maybe the cheesy 70's superhero comics had been onto something. His initial plans had been for a fireman-style pole, but the friction burn would have been a setback. Also, Hulk probably wouldn't fit down the tube.

"Tony. Hi."

"Hey." He didn't look up, despite Steve's tired voice. This was the ground they didn't tread, after all. "What do you think of a series of looping slides from our personal quarters down to the assembling bay?" Tony didn't grunt at the thump of weight down on the couch beside him, didn't shift away from the radiating body heat beside him. Steve never really bothered with the foot-wide politeness gap, for all his old-world charm.

"I think you've been bored today," Steve said frankly, grabbing the tablet out of his hands. "You come up with the craziest ideas when you're left alone."

"Well it was either that or shred the curtains," Tony said, reaching for his unlawfully stolen goods. Steve held the tablet two-handed, like a book, but his thumbs were nimble as they saved the file and shut it down. It was then passed back without comment, which was absolutely no fun at all. Tony stuffed it under a couch cushion, twirling the blunt stylus between his fingers.

"Brought you something," Steve said, tossing a warm weight into Tony's lap. "It was on my way back."

Tony recognised the smell of beef and onion, pulling open the White Castle takeaway bag to peer at the burgers inside. "Oh my god. Did you remember—"

"Three pickles. Yeah, I remembered." The long-suffering voice didn't quite match up with the half-smile teasing the corner of Steve's mouth. "It cost me extra."

"You are a god among men," Tony swore as he pulled out one paper-wrapped burger. "And I say that as someone who actually knows a couple."

Steve shrugged a little, watching him tear into it. "I know you get bored on roster duty. Bored and hungry." His mouth quirked again. "The express slide designs are a surprise, though."

"Not all of my ideas are feasible," Tony admitted around a mouthful. Not liking the shadows gathered around Steve's eyes, he reached into the bag and tossed Steve the other burger. "Yours was going to have little Red Skull heads on it. You'd be rubbing your ass on his face every time you had a mission."

Staring at him, Steve Rogers managed to hold onto his composure for approximately three seconds. Tony watched with great amusement as their stalwart leader bent over his burger and burst out laughing, face pressed into his own arm to try to muffle the sound. As if that was going to happen - his shoulders were shaking with it. Steve Rogers' shoulders didn't shake unless he was completely gone with laughter.

"Only you, Tony," he said eventually, wiping the corner of one eye. "You're—you're really one of a kind."

Biting down down on the delight that was threatening to take over his entire face, Tony managed to school it down into nothing more than a crooked curve of his mouth. His eyes probably gave it all away though.

"I choose to take that as a compliment."

Steve just knocked their shoulders together, his mouth trembling around a grin that blew all the shadows away. For a while, at least, and that was more than enough.

Was it five hours? No.

It was just five minutes, and nothing else needed to be said.

 


	14. Fight as One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all of the Avengers come down with a cold.

 

“Jarvis,” Tony croaked. “Jarvis, I’m dying. Prepare my Last Will and Testament.”

” _Your melodrama is unbecoming, sir. By my readings, you and the other Avengers have nothing more than a nasty case of the common cold._ ”

Unsympathetic Jarvis was the worst. Giving up, Tony burrowed further back into the couch, his blanket pulled up to his chin. He could have holed up in his bedroom like a proper patient, but then there would have been no one around to see how sick he was. Unfortunately, it had been that kind of thinking that had infected the rest of the team as they went about their usual routine, ignoring the sneezing lump of pure genius huddled in the corner of the couch.

While they weren’t entirely sure how Steve and Thor had both caught the bug, they’d decided that since they were all quietly dying they might as well take a week’s sick leave as a team.

“Give me some of your b-b-blanket,” Bruce said plaintively, shivering. He was clearly in the Weird Fever Stage and thought he was cold. Clambering up beside Tony, he plucked at the corner of it until he was grudgingly given access, at which point he yanked it over himself and left Tony completely bare to the pre-set air conditioning.

“You’re an asshole,” he told Bruce, who just moaned and turned into a ball. Rolling his head to the side, Tony groped for his tissue box and the TV remote, but they were out of reach. “Oh God, it’s all over.”

Thor, apparently roused by the sound of voices, staggered into the living room. He was pale, his hair hung in lank strands and the end of his nose was bright red. He was also wearing nothing more than his red boxers, still in denial that he was even sick.

“You look like death, Tony Stark,” Thor rasped, heading for the tissues and remote Tony was pointing at.

“You look like pale Hulk, don’t judge. Now come here and snuggle with me until I’m warm. It’s a completely legitimate Earth custom, I promise.”

Thor looked like he disagreed with that statement, but collapsed hard into the couch next to him anyway, passing him the remote. Tony shamelessly plastered himself to his side, hiding it inside of a strategic stretch. Whatever got the job done: Thor was putting out heat like a campfire. A beefy, blond campfire.

“THE PIGEONS,” Bruce yelled suddenly, before descending back into querulous muttering. Gross. Hallucinations. Tony patted his blanket-covered back with the remote.

“Put on the show with the foolhardy spy,” Thor said, sounding like his entire head was stuffed with cotton wool. “I find his nasal voice soothing.”

“Nope. No more Get Smart re-runs until you stop checking my shoes for secret telephones.”

Thor scowled. ”Then I shall no longer call down thunderstorms for you when Justin Hammer is throwing his outdoor feasts.”

“Oh my God, fine,” Tony muttered, clicking the channel over.

The following hours were punctuated by rampant nose-blowing, Thor’s amused snorting, and the occasional bellow from Bruce about various ghosts from his past. That, or he just really hated birds. Clint and Natasha emerged at one point to huddle down next to Thor, squinting at the TV screen like it was taking them a while to decipher what they were watching. Then they proceeded to crack spy jokes to each other and giggle like hoarse, drunk children.

Steve appeared after Tony had Jarvis pull him out of his room, where he was trying to pretend he was a staunch leader and not, in fact, feeling miserable about being sick for the first time since he took the serum. He wormed his way down between Tony and Bruce, stole half of the blanket back and handed out his stash of cough drops with altogether too much generosity for Tony’s liking. He took three and handed them back to Steve one-by-one as his coughing came back.

So passed an afternoon that should have been spent feeling miserable and grouchy, but somehow turned out to be quite the opposite.

At least until Bruce had one nightmare too many and transformed in his sleep, squashing Steve in a terrible green bear hug.

Then it was just hilarious.

 


	15. An Acquired Taste

Purple dusk was deepening into a warm summer night, and Tony Stark was drinking alone.

Well, mostly alone. Stark Tower was still a hive of activity even on a Friday evening and Jarvis was always a command away, but from the top floor penthouse balcony the solitude felt complete. Below Tony, the city stretched out in a glittering blanket of lights and glass and colour, the distant sound of traffic drifting up to him like a dream.

It was peaceful. Almost beautiful, really.

It pissed him off.

“Hell of a night for a broken leg,” Tony muttered, glaring down at the bulky white plaster gripping him from foot to mid-thigh. “Hell of a night.”

It had been just over a week since the skirmish with MODOK and his irritatingly effective psionic powers had sent Iron Man careening into an extremely angry Hulk, leaving him with one handy-as-you-please fracture to his tibia and an order from Steve and Pepper to stand down as Iron Man until it healed.

Tony wanted to say it was just an excuse for Rhodey to see some action in his stead but every time he brought it up Steve pulled the ‘you’re only human’ speech, and damned if that didn’t get his hackles up every time.

So there he was, brooding on the balcony with a bottle of his most expensive scotch, his crutches propped against the railing beside him, watching the evening sky change colours and scowling at the world. It seemed as good a way to spend his night as any. Crippled and stuck on the highest floor of his own tower with only himself and a bottle of booze and some painkillers for company. Whose idea had that been?

Tony had barely drained a fifth of the scotch when the world ripped open beside him and a tall figure jumped through the glowing tear.

A tall, very familiar figure in black and green. His eyes flashed bright for an instant; reflecting light or magic back at Tony. Maybe it was both.

Great.

“Well, I guess I owe Banner a new lab upgrade.” Tony turned stiffly to face his new companion. “Nice night for world conquest, but I can’t say coming back here is all that smart. What’s it been, Loki? Two years?”

The warm glow of alcohol in the pit of his stomach dulled Tony’s potential cold sweat down to mild alarm as Loki stalked toward him in the gathering darkness, his expression wreathed in grim shadow.

“Two years, three months and a handful of days, by Midgard’s calendar,” Loki replied, to Tony’s surprise. His lips were a pale stretch of amusement. “Imprisonment tends to make one more aware of the passage of time.”

Tony remembered that voice; smooth and cultured, a cool hint of arrogance threading through his words. But maybe it was the difference of a few years or something else entirely, but Loki didn’t sound nearly as confidently menacing as he had last time.

“So you counted the days.”

Loki lifted one shoulder in an unconcerned shrug. “There was little else to do.”

Then he’d been locked up somewhere, after all. Thor had been a little fuzzy on the details before he left with the Tesseract and his brother, but he’d assured them all that Loki would be appropriately dealt with. Interesting.

Even more interesting was that Loki’s armour was plain black leather and green, his horns and gold accoutrements nowhere in sight. It was a far cry from the dramatics of his last visit. Apart from the lack of posturing and threats there was a thinness to Loki’s pale face, and something savage boiling behind his eyes.

“Why are you here?” Blunt but not outright rude, Tony cautioned himself. A broken leg and a belly full of scotch meant he was going to be in deep trouble if Loki was here to start something. He couldn’t even suit up this time.

“Because this is where I lost, of course.” Whatever sense that made in his head was completely lost on Tony. “He will not look here. Not yet.”

Okay. “Uh, wouldn’t Thor look here first?”

“I do not speak of Thor.” With that Loki turned the full force of his gaze on Tony, assessing him from head to foot with all the singular intensity of a diamond laser. “Share your hearth for the evening.”

Mid-way through a gulp of scotch, Tony almost choked.

“What? No. I have a strict ‘no alien conqueror-wannabes’ rule when it comes to inviting people in. Also, _why_? Can’t you just…” He wiggled his fingers. “Magic up a place?”

Loki watched Tony take another healthy swig of scotch straight from the bottle, green eyes intent. Either the combination of painkillers and alcohol really had done something to his brain, or Loki had his eyes on the contents of the bottle. All doubt was removed a few seconds later.

“You never did provide me with that drink.” Loki paused. “Wouldn’t you say I’ve earned it after enduring such treatment from you and yours?”

_That_ was so grossly unfair it wasn’t even funny.

“Did you forget the part where you tried to enslave the entire—oh my god, forget it. _Here_.” He held the bottle out to Loki, who smiled thinly and took it in one pale hand. “I’m stoned on painkillers and my judgement is impaired. Have at it. I need to sit down.” Turning, he grabbed his crutches and slipped them under his arms, heading for the propped-open doors that led into his penthouse.

Of course this is what would be dumped in his lap while he was crippled, angry and lonely. Perfect. He was going to take MODOK’s exoskeleton apart with a chainsaw next time he saw him. Psionic asshole.

Jarvis was a humming wash of digital blue at his workstation, running the daily systems check as Tony hobbled his way into the warm light of the living area, making a beeline for the expensive couch.

Loki followed him in, scanning the room with interest. The bottle was secured in a long-fingered grip. Tony resented him a little for it as he sat down, hissing as he supported his leg. The plaster itched in places he couldn’t scratch.

“Where are your Avengers?”

Tony wondered if he had a screwdriver somewhere he could stick down the cast. “Out. Busy. Fighting crime. Getting laid.”

“Not paying attention to you.” There was a smile in Loki’s voice, and Tony didn’t like it one bit. “What a shame. I could have some fun with you, were I gifted with more time.”

“I’ll try not to cry myself to sleep.”

“Hmm.” Loki circled the couch and sat himself down beside Tony. It was only then in the brighter light that he noticed the bruises ringing Loki’s throat, yellowed and purpling like a collar had been pulled too tight for too long. Asgard sure had some strange methods of subjugating their criminals. Tony pretended not to notice how gingerly Loki bent and sat. It wasn’t like he was faring any better.

“I had my leg broken by a living computer with an enormous head,” Tony offered as Loki took a long swallow of scotch. If he was waiting for the pained hiss that usually followed a chug like that, he was disappointed. Loki just wiped his bottom lip with one finger and brought the bottle up to read the label. Then he passed it across to Tony.

“I had a serpent’s venom slowly burn through my chest. You’ll have to do better than that.”

“It’s not a competition,” Tony replied sourly, purposely taking a long swig from the bottle. If his chest felt scalded and his vision swam a little, well, he was on painkillers. “Besides, snake venom doesn’t burn.”

Loki gave him a flat look and unbuckled his leathers enough to expose part of his chest. The flesh Tony saw there was raw, trying to heal over a burn that followed the pattern water might make, if it was poured over skin.

“Pretty,” Tony commented mildly as he covered the wound again, reclining back into the cushion. The bottle that was passed across to him was taken without comment. “Pretty sure I’ve still got you beat, though. Remember when you tapped me with your staff?”

“I remember tossing you through…that window,” Loki replied, pointing with one long finger at the reinforced plate glass. “But, yes.”

It was probably madness to do it, but Tony unbuttoned his shirt and bared the arc reactor. Loki leaned over and stared at the glow of the recessed core. The look he shot Tony was indecipherable.

“Your aim was a little off,” Tony explained, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “Or my heart was. Arc reactor trumps snake venom burn.”

Loki’s lips twitched. “It’s not a competition.” Leaning back again with a sigh, he held out his hand for the scotch again. Tony gave it without complaint, but he couldn’t help but wonder what the hell was going on.

Maybe the injuries were to be blamed for this less violent trickster. That or Loki didn’t have much of a tolerance for spirits after being acid-burned by what had to be a damn big snake. Tony figured he’d had enough to drink that he was content to let Loki be for the night. If nothing else, it would make a great story to tell the others. Steve would be tripping over his shield to apologise for leaving him stranded like the angriest princess in the magic tower. There was a nice thought.

The bottle had dipped to just under a quarter full when Tony rolled his head across to eye Loki speculatively.

“I only have one bed. How are we doing this? Head to toe? I don’t like to snuggle.”

Loki actually snorted at that, his teeth a quick flash of white before his smile straightened out. With his head tipped back and his eyes closed, Loki looked almost relaxed.

“Have no fear, it will not be long until I can teleport again. Go find your rest.”

“Not happening,” Tony said bluntly. “Last time you invited yourself over, you brought all your friends and they trashed the place. Trust is earned.” Plucking the bottle from Loki’s loose grip, he capped it and set it down on the carpet beside him. After all he’d technically only offered one drink, not an entire bottle of Macallan.

It took a little effort and a hand on the arm of the couch for Tony to stand up, but eventually he got himself propped up correctly and held a hand out to the tired sorcerer.

“Come on, get your bruised ass off my furniture. I think I’ve got something for that burn upstairs.” It was a pretty big olive branch, all things considered, and no way was Tony leaving Loki to his own devices in his home. The eyes that stared back at him were vivid green and a little glassy from alcohol and pain.

Without comment Loki took the offered hand and unfolded in one fluid movement, but it looked like it cost him to do it. Tugged forward by the surprising weight of him Tony couldn’t help but stagger as his cast dragged on the carpet, almost falling straight into Loki’s injured chest.

When his hands landed on Loki’s hips and braced there he almost wished he’d let himself hit the burn. They stared at each other for a single moment, startled. No, actually that was just Tony. _Loki_ looked…almost interested. A horny drunk. Who knew?

“That leg is going to get you in trouble, Stark,” Loki murmured, tilting his head back to regard him more clearly. Fingers flexed against his biceps and Tony realised that Loki had him in his grip, in more ways than one.

“See, I like trouble. It keeps things interesting.” Shut up, Tony.

Loki stepped further into his grip, until they were standing almost flush against each other. Tony’s crutches had fallen over and if he was honest he knew he wasn’t getting away if Loki didn’t want him to.

Hell of a night for a broken leg, he reminded himself as lips brushed his ear, warm and smooth. The rush of breath across his skin made every hair on his neck reach for the sky.

“I couldn’t agree more.” Hands slid down to the crook of his elbows, fingernails dragging as they moved. “Unfortunately, I haven’t the time to cause any _trouble_ with you. I’ve lingered too long as it is.” As he drew back Tony saw his eyes flash green, almost catlike in the way they gathered light. Loki’s entire body seemed to shift like a wash of static had run through it. Time to go, then.

“Good luck with life on the run,” Tony said, thumbs pushing beneath the seam of his armour, finding skin. “Who did you piss off again?”

Loki’s smile was a razor. “Oh, I expect you’ll meet _him_ soon enough,” he replied, his voice brittle. “Good evening, Stark. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Who—” Tony’s reply was muffled by the hard press of a mouth on his, there and gone in an instant. With his vision abruptly flaring green and the tang of ozone filling his nose, he didn’t need to see to know that Loki had taken the flashy express train the hell out of there.

“Nice seeing you,” Tony said to empty air, nonplussed. His mouth felt like an electrical charge had run through it.

Still, that had gone pretty well, he decided, bending down awkwardly to collect his scotch. A definite improvement on last time. A lot less plummeting and gut-clenching terror. The kissing thing had been different, too. He’d have to ask him about that if he ever turned up again.

All Tony could wonder now was what Loki had meant about eventually meeting his pursuer, and what that was going to entail for everyone when it happened.

Because if the god of mischief himself was running from him, it was probably going to mean a world of hurt for the rest of them.

“Keep an eye on the skies for me, Jarvis.”

“ _Yes, sir_.”

At least they could try to be prepared.

 


	16. As Before (I Went Under)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mortality means little to a god. Or does it? After Loki is carelessly snatched back from the brink of death, Tony begins to notice that their old enemy is starting to slip a little.

There were still storm clouds in the sky, even hours after the battle. Thick and dark, they were an ominous blanket pulled over what would have been a brilliant summer sunset. It left the air stifling and charged with something Tony wanted to call anticipation, though his instincts told him it was much worse than that.

Still it wasn’t the impending storm that concerned him. What concerned him was the inhumanly strong hands fisted in his shirt, shoving him back against the rooftop access door.

Tony really needed to learn when to keep his mouth shut.

_Especially_ when he was right.

"You think you can comprehend my desires?" Loki hissed into Tony's ear, hot breath rushing against the sensitive shell. Fingers dug into his collarbone, flexing like they wanted to rip it out. "You think you understand what drives me? You?”

“I think you’re slipping,” Tony grunted, shoving hard into Loki’s chest. He barely moved, but it gave Tony the few inches he needed to tilt his head up and look Loki straight in the eye. “I think you can’t even touch Thor in a fight since we saved your life. I think you spend half your time thrashing Hulk because you know he can take it. And me? Do I even need to remind you of your little—”

“It meant _nothing_.” Loki’s eyes were glowing with warning. Because they didn’t talk about the bungled explosion or the frantic resuscitation. Nobody mentioned the heaving gasp against Tony’s mouth, or the shaking hand that had squeezed so hard it nearly broke his wrist. How Thor had wept openly with relief, far too grateful to still have a brother who wanted him dead.

No, talking about saving your enemy’s life was just bad form.

Tony smile was sharp, his laugh brittle.

“You had a clear shot at me today. You didn’t take it.”

It was true; he could still remember the moment he’d crashed on the rooftop, the hard slam of impact reverberating through the suit. His golden faceplate had skittered across the concrete, detached by one good old-fashioned smack from the dull end of a swordstaff. Tony had looked up to see green energy crawl through the sky – looked up to see Loki turn away like he’d never even seen him there, wide open and one small knife away from being out of the game permanently.

The corner of Loki’s mouth jerked like he wanted to deny it, but he didn’t say a word. Which was almost as damning, really. Tony leaned forward.

“Face it, Loki. You don’t even want to fight us anymore.”

With a sigh the heavens finally opened in a rush of warm rain as Loki’s hands flattened out against his chest, slipping up over his shoulders. The anger drained from his eyes, leaving behind a look Tony knew too damn well, though he’d never seen it in _that_ face before.

The rain fell between them for a long time.

Neither of them moved.

“Asgard’s warriors would talk of the Halls of Valhalla, of where they would be welcomed as heroes after falling in battle,” Loki said finally, barely audible over the rain. He didn’t even seem to notice that they were both saturated. “At the moment of my death, I knew that I was not headed to such a place. The hand that reached for me through the darkness was cold, and rotted. I still feel it sometimes, broken nails scrabbling for purchase against the back of my neck—” His voice dried up abruptly, eyes dark and fixed with memory.

Tony swallowed, his mind casting about for something to say, but all he could think of was a clear desert sky and his own blood spilling onto the sand. So he waited for Loki, pressed between the door and unsteady hands. The scent of rain meeting hot concrete rose in the air around them, the white noise of the summer storm drowning out the traffic below. What had almost become another rooftop fight had turned into something strange, something almost intimate.

“I felt the clutch of that hand, and knew there was no power inside me that could challenge it,” Loki said hollowly. Then his eyes locked with Tony’s. “I was _lost_. Then the air turned warm and there was a hand on my heart, and I returned, all in one great rush. I ached, I bled and there wasn’t nearly enough air—and you were staring down at me, still sporting the injuries I’d given you.”

The hands on Tony’s shoulders squeezed dangerously hard, slick with rain and warm through his shirt. Loki’s eyes were brilliant green in the dwindling light.

“So, what, you got visited by the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come and now you want to turn over a new leaf?” Tony asked, shrugging under his hands. “Hey, I’m game. But don’t look to me like I have any answers. All I did was get your heart started.”

“Yes,” Loki said simply. “All you did was pull my soul back down into my body. All you did was breathe life back into it, when it had gone cold and silent. All you _did_ …was press palms to my heart until blood rushed through my veins again.” Rain dripped off his jawline as Loki leaned down, fingers sliding over wet fabric and skin until they encircled his throat. Thumbs firmly tilted his head up until Tony couldn’t escape that gaze even if he tried.

“You’re making it out to be more than it is,” Tony said, his voice strangely hoarse. He cleared his throat. “Look, it wasn’t even my call—”

“I still remember your mouth,” Loki murmured, as if Tony hadn’t even spoken. “Firm, pushing warm air into me.” Fingertips rubbed against the edge of his goatee. “The rasp of it when I opened my mouth under yours and breathed on my own.”

Tony didn’t know where the hell the conversation was going, but there was a familiar heat curling in the pit of his stomach, and he didn’t know what the hell to do about that. What had possessed him to call Loki out on his lacklustre attacks, anyway? Out of a suit, taunting thin air from the rooftop—he should have known it would end badly for him. But damn, he hadn’t seen this coming.

Lightning forked across the sky suddenly, the wind picking up harshly around them. The rain lashed them hard. It was almost full dark now, the setting sun completely swallowed by the storm. The crack of thunder that followed was quick and close, deafening Tony for an instant and rumbling through the ground beneath them.

The only thing Tony could still see in the storm was the contrast of Loki’s hair clinging to his pale face in wet tendrils. His wet fingers slid along the curve of Tony’s jaw almost absently.

“Do near-death experiences always have this effect on you?” Tony asked as Loki began closing the distance between them. For what, Tony wasn’t game to find out. It distracted him just enough to stop short of what might have been a kiss.

“I wouldn’t know,” Loki replied. “I’ve never died before. Not—like that.”

“So what do you want?”

“From you? I want to know if I can still taste my resurrection on your lips.”

Tony stared at him. Loki was just a mass of shadows now, with eyes like pinpoints of light. _Holy hell._

Something in his silence must have felt like permission to Loki, because in the next moment a rain-wet mouth pressed against his, hands framing his jaw to hold him in place against the door.

Tony wasn’t expecting the warmth of him; the rain had chilled their skin enough that his mouth was a welcoming heat, yielding easily when Tony instinctively leaned into the kiss, allowing him to deepen it.

The rain poured between them as they broke apart, and Tony felt like the storm had climbed into his bones. Loki just stood there, quiet, his hands sliding away from him.

“See, just a kiss,” Tony said eventually, his heart thudding hard against his ribs. “There’s no magic here.”

Loki exhaled softly, the sound almost a laugh. “Magic I have, Stark. What I sought was something quite different.”

He couldn’t help but ask. “Did you find it?”

Loki pulled back entirely then, stepping away from the door. The rush of air the movement brought with it was startlingly cold. Or maybe Tony just hadn’t noticed how much of a shield Loki had been.

“Time will tell,” was all he said in reply. Loki turned for the edge of the balcony, green light already gathering beneath his feet. “You should go inside, Stark. I wouldn’t want you to catch your death out here.”

The light took him before Tony’s mind could unravel what that meant, leaving him staring out at the storm-drenched city with a head full of unanswered questions. He supposed one thing was clear enough, though; Loki wasn’t done with him just yet.

Time would tell.

Interesting choice of words.

Tony found himself looking forward to finding out what they meant.

 

* * *

 

 


	17. Hourglass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki always was quick to catch onto a lie. In which Tony's palladium poisoning doesn't occur until after the events of The Avengers.

"Well, the cat's out of the bag now, right?" Tony said. His chest prickled in the cool air of the workshop. "Not quite what I was planning on, but I guess you knew that." His mouth curved up, but there was no comfort in his smile. It was just an old reflex, and no comfort for the one standing before him.

Loki didn't do comfort, anyway. In fact, he really didn't react to the confession at all, which Tony was sure he was grateful for under his numbness and defeat. No, he just stared, green eyes slightly wider than Tony had seen for a while, but that was all.

The tainted latticework of palladium crawling out from Tony's arc reactor seemed to have him entranced.

Loki had almost figured it out himself by the time Tony gave up on the deception. Maybe he hadn't known exactly what was causing it, but when Tony had started turning away from him, drawing back and spending his days and nights in the workshop, running numbers and probability scenarios until he passed out...it had become pretty clear. There were only a few things that would cause Tony Stark to start dodging Loki Laufeyson like his life depended on it, these days.

"The core is degenerating," Tony started to explain, not sure why he felt like he needed to fill that silence. "Palladium poisoning, it's--"

"How long until this kills you?" The question was cold, each word clipped. Tony blinked, letting his shirt fall back down into place.

"Jarvis tells me it'll be another ten days, maybe eight if I'm not careful." He paused, adding, "it should be quick, you know; once it reaches my brain it should be all over within a few hours. Massive organ failure should follow just after I lose consciousness. It's not going to be pretty, but it won't drag out."

Loki nodded curtly. "And you were not going to tell me."

"There didn't seem much point." Better to have his friends and...Loki, treat him as they always have. Infirmity wasn't befitting a Stark. And if he avoided having to see the horror and grief in the faces of the handful of people he cared about, well. Bonus.

Now there was a shadow in Loki's eyes, and a tremble of something terrible gathering in the pale curve of his mouth.

"Did you think you could not ask for my aid?" The words were forced out of him, sounding grated and rusty. "Did you think I would not give it? _"_

Tony held his hands up, shaking his head. This was what he'd been trying to avoid. But the best laid plans, and all that.

"It's not that I--there's nothing you _can_ do. It's already over, Loki."

"You doubt my powers?" Loki hissed. In the cool light of his workshop his eyes looked almost over-bright. "Do you have any idea what I _am?_ "

Tony knew exactly what he was, maybe even better than Loki himself did these days. It had been a long time since they were enemies, but they'd always danced to a strange song. They'd known from the start that when it went up in smoke there was going to be devastating fallout.

"The arc reactor powers the magnet that holds back the shrapnel around my heart. Without it, I die. The arc reactor's palladium core is poisoning me. _With_ it, I die." Tony's mouth kicked up slightly as Loki's fury only seemed to build. "There's nothing that can replace the core. I've looked."

Loki wasn't having any of that. Striding forward, crowding Tony back against the worktable, he reached out and tore his shirt apart, again exposing the dark tracery fanning out from the reactor's glow. The blue light reflected in his eyes as Loki put cool palms to the hot and tender seam where metal met flesh, and the verdant glow of his magic poured into Tony's veins.

It always felt like ice to him, that magic. Part of his brain still wanted to argue that it was only science, but Tony had always been reluctant to pull apart Loki's inner workings, to unravel his secrets and lay all mystery bare. But when Loki breathed out in a shuddering rush and the threads of power pulled back, when he looked Tony dead in the eye, he saw that at least one mystery had been solved.

"Huh," Tony said softly. "So you do care."

Loki swallowed, refusing to reply. Or maybe he couldn't. There was more than a trick of the light pooling in his green eyes, and it wasn't the fading echo of magic. Reaching up, Tony covered the hands on his chest with his own, squeezing them hard.

"Don't stick around for it. Just...do that for me, will you? Go somewhere. Throw snowballs on Jotunheim. Get trashed with Doom and--and blow up the moon. Take your brother and destroy a small island together." Something hot and hard was lodged in Tony's throat, and he couldn't get it out. "Don't watch me die."

Loki's jaw tightened, his eyes dropping to their hands. Tony squeezed again, harder this time, and felt the fingers under his flex and slide away from his skin.

"I have no plans to do any such thing," Loki said finally. There was a strange resolve in his eyes. "But you will kiss me goodbye all the same. It seems I have far to travel, and little time to do it."

Tony was about to ask what he meant when Loki reached up to cradle his face between long-fingered hands. It was a strangely tender gesture, and not one Tony could ever remember being the recipient of from him. Bewilderment dissolved the words on his tongue as Loki's eyes ran over his face, his fingers following in light, cool paths. And then, as their eyes met, it hit him in a rush of grief that clutched hard at his chest, pulling in a way the arc reactor had never done.

Tony was going to _miss_ him.

The kiss was no goodbye. At least, their desperate clash of lips and tongue and the fingers pressing hard lines into his skin didn't feel like any goodbye kiss Tony had ever gotten. Threading his fingers up into long black hair he stretched up into the kiss, tasting bitter salt and warmth on Loki's lips as he opened his mouth, welcoming the urgent press of his tongue as it delved deep inside. He wanted to remember this, for as long as he could.

"Don't die until I have returned," Loki said against his mouth, the words breathed softly there. "Two weeks, Stark. Give me that."

"I don't think I have that long," Tony admitted, his fingers sifting through the soft strands of hair at the nape of Loki's neck. "It's pretty bad."

"Make it happen. You've done the impossible before."

Tony could have asked what Loki planned to do, tried to pry the information from behind his teeth or denied that he could do anything at all. But they knew each other. If nothing else, Loki was a survivor, just like him. Tony was so far out of options he could put his blind faith in him, just this once.

"Okay," he replied simply. "Okay. Until I see you again. Make it worth my while, Laufeyson."

Loki didn't respond to that; instead his form simply washed out into faint translucence, fading away in Tony's grip entirely. It was no goodbye, and somehow that bolstered Tony's resolve a little. He turned to the holographic workstation.

"Jarvis, what do you think? Am I gonna make it?"

Jarvis was quick to speak his mind.

" _Probability scenarios of success unable to be completed. My apologies, sir. I cannot conclude any outcome with Mr Laufeyson added to the criteria. He is a wildcard in all scenarios._ "

Tony just smiled. For the first time in weeks, it actually felt real.

"I guess that's good enough for me."

 


	18. Stiletto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smouldering beauty that Tony keeps hooking up with at the bar has a surprise up her sleeve.

Tony preferred to drink at home.

While the expensive lounges and bars of New York were more than willing to indulge his every whim, it just wasn’t worth the hassle of putting up with schmoozers sidling up to him and paparazzi lurking in the doorways. Post-battle drinks were supposed to be relaxing.

Still, he did occasionally make an exception. Four exceptions in the last month, to be precise.

_She_ had been there every single time.

Tony could see her sitting at the bar as he walked in: long legs crossed, a glass of wine balanced between her fingers. Her hair spilled like ink down the pale line of her back, contrasting with the dark green satin of her dress. The woman was beautiful, there were no two ways about it. But Tony could have beautiful whenever he wanted. This one…she was clever.

Tony _liked_ clever. And despite knowing what every inch of that pale skin tasted like, he had yet to find himself bored of the flavour.

Their fifth encounter in the bar, and she was there waiting for him. That said something, too.

Her red mouth curved in a secret smile as he approached, signalling the bartender for a scotch.

“Mr Stark,” she greeted, raising her glass slightly to him. Her smoky voice was low in the stillness of the bar. Tony found himself struck by the memory of that voice fraying into a moan that made his toes curl. “I saw you on the news last night.”

He’d seen the story; Avengers versus Loki, part the millionth. It hadn’t been much of a skirmish, really. A few enchanted statues, a bit of cold amusement and yet another dent in the suit to knock back out. Same old, same old. It was actually getting a little boring, if Tony was honest. Back in the day, Loki used to actually try to kill them.

“Did they shoot me at a good angle?” he asked, tossing a twenty down on the bar as his scotch arrived. “What would you give me, on a scale of one to ten?”

“Perhaps I would give you a four,” she replied, watching his reaction closely. “But your determination to get past those statues to Loki intrigued me. He’s very powerful, isn’t he? What would you have done if you reached him?”

“Four?” Tony repeated sourly. “You’re a damn hard woman to please, Lady.” It wasn’t her name, of course – that much she’d refused to tell him. Tony hadn’t minded, and so the nickname had stuck.

“Hmm,” she replied, her voice dangerously close to a purr. “Not _that_ hard, I should think. But you didn’t answer my question.”

She did have a point there. Tony remembered fingers tangled painfully in his hair, white thighs locked around his shoulders. He definitely pleased her _that_ night. Blinking, he cleared his throat and tried to think of an answer.

“Question, right. Well, I’d try to distract him until someone with bigger guns can take him down, I guess.” He shrugged at the less-than-impressive answer. “The suit can do a lot of things, but with his magic that guy is on a whole new level. He once peeled me clean out of my suit just to prove that he could, and then he just left me there. Completely unscathed.”

It was one of the stranger moments in their violent history and it still drove Tony nuts to think of it. After breaking him out of the suit Loki’s eyes had just raked down the length of him where he lay there, panting and surrounded by the remains of his newest Iron Man suit. Then he walked away, back into the fight. It was the craziest thing Tony had seen him do, and that was saying something.

“What if he just wanted to see you under all that metal?” Lady suggested, tilting her head slightly. In the half light of the bar, her eyes were a hundred shades of green. Tony snorted and took a healthy swig of his scotch.

“Honey, not everyone is as keen as you to get my clothes off.”

She laughed at that; a real laugh of genuine amusement. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders as she leaned forward, pressing her mouth to his ear.

“If I were he, I’d want to know every human inch of you,” she breathed, and Tony felt one stiletto heel press against the back of his knee, a hand curving around the side of his neck. “Every warm stretch of skin from your head to your feet. I would slip my skin and fashion new features to your liking, and then I would seek to know you. In every…sense…of the word.”

Tony swallowed, feeling a very disconnected sense of premonition overcome him.

“Oh my god.”

Loki laughed against his ear. “That is what they call me, sometimes.”

 

 


	19. Friday Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a late night at the office for Pepper. That is, until she receives some unexpected guests.

Pepper loved the office at night.

Most people would hate being stuck back reviewing contracts while the sun went down and the stars came out, but not Pepper. Night was when the phones stopped ringing, when the knocking at the door went silent. Night was peace and quiet.

It meant she could get her work done, it meant she could think and maybe best of all, she could take off her high heels and there was no one around to give a damn that the acting CEO of Stark Industries looked anything less than perfect.

She was really getting into the swing of her paperwork when a tall figure shifted within the shadows in the corner of the office. Pepper swallowed and took a deep breath through her nose. Taser, top drawer to the left. Panic button two inches to the right of her right hand, under the desk. She was _fine._

“All right, who’s there?”

“Just an old acquaintance,” a voice sighed. Green eyes flashed in the low light; feral, animalistic. Inhuman. “Still working, I see. Does this tedium never stop, Miss Potts?”

_Loki_. What was he doing there? Usually he only showed his face if—

“Pepper, oh my god. You crazed workaholic. It’s nine o’clock,” Tony was already saying before the double doors of her office fully opened and he strode in, business casual in suit pants and a burgundy shirt that did nothing to hide the cool glow of his arc reactor. Not that Tony Stark gave a damn, Pepper thought dryly. These days, he flaunted it.

“But I’m almost done,” Pepper protested as Tony grabbed the file she was working on and flipped it shut, taking it with him over to the crystal decanters brimming with scotch. She never touched them. “Why are you here? Why is _he_ here?”

“How rude,” Loki said from the other side of the room. He was studying the bookshelves, running light fingertips across the leather spines tucked against each other. The look he gave her was full of gathering light.

“It’s an intervention, Pepper,” Tony told her, setting a glass tumbler down in front of her. “Now drink. It’s Friday night and you’re scaring me.”

Rolling her eyes, Pepper took the glass between her hands and lifted it to her lips, taking the smallest of possible sips. Humouring Tony’s whims was one of the things she was good at, but she didn’t need to suffer the taste of scotch while she did it.

“Come on, Pepper,” Tony said, giving her a look. “Get your throat wet. I’m not leaving until I see you wheeze.”

“I don’t think I like the taste,” she replied dubiously, but took a healthy swallow anyway. It burned the whole way down, leaving her gasping as a spreading warmth tingled its way through her chest.

“Oh, Tony, how do you drink that all the time?”

“Years of practice.” He toasted her.

Air shifted at the back of her neck and she glanced over her shoulder to see the edge of a green-lined leather duster. It was all the warning she got before she felt deft fingers slide the clip out of her hair, sending the lot tumbling down around her shoulders.

“Hey! Don’t just—” Her train of thought completely ran off course when long, strong fingers dove into the warmth of her hair, kneading along the tense curve of her neck and shoulders with perfect pressure. “Oh.”

“Forgive my forward gesture,” Loki whispered, bending close to her ear. “I simply seek to give you…relief.”

Pepper struggled to think of a reply, but her mouth was warm with the taste of alcohol and his fingers were moving up into her scalp, dragging heavy lines of sensation through hair that had been tightly bound all day. It felt like heaven, even if it was Loki doing it. Loki, who was forever ambiguously neutral until he decided to attack.

“He’s pretty good with his hands, isn’t he?” Tony’s mouth curved slightly as he watched from the corner of the desk where he sat. The sip he took of his scotch was measured, but his eyes were unwavering. “Have another drink.”

Pepper tried to shake her head, but she didn’t want to interrupt whatever Loki was doing. “No, I don’t think I like it, and I need to get these files done with tonight.”

Shaking his head, Tony slid off the desk and took a quick mouthful of scotch, swivelling her chair around and leaning in close.

“Pepper, you need to relax,” he told her, covering her mouth with his. Pepper went rigid with surprise, gasping against his mouth, which was hot and laced with the burn of the alcohol he’d just swallowed. It wasn’t until the fingers in her hair tugged her head back that she dazedly recalled that Tony and Loki had some kind of complicated…hold over each other.

“Don’t be greedy, Stark,” Loki said dangerously. “Now she tastes of you.”

Tony shrugged. “So fix that.”

It took her a second to process that, but by the time she’d understood it was already happening; fingers guiding her head back, arching her throat. She saw Loki’s inhumanly green eyes gazing down at her with dark interest. Fingertips touched her lips, still slick from Tony’s kiss.

“If I may,” he whispered, “Miss Potts.”

She swallowed.

“Maybe you’d better call me Pepper,” she told him, feeling Tony’s warm hand flex against her thigh as Loki lowered his mouth to hers.

Kissing him wasn’t anything like kissing Tony. Tony was unpredictable and warm and adored - Tony was slightly scratchy kisses and laughter in her mouth. Loki was smooth and cool and demanding by turns, decisive and intense as he plunged deep into her mouth, learning every curve and texture he could map with his tongue. He left her gasping for breath with he pulled away, her lips tingling from the assault.

“Scotch,” Loki said thoughtfully. “Of course. Hmm. I’ve not kissed lips so soft for some time now.”

Tony was looking almost as dazed as Pepper. “Well that was…interesting. I didn’t expect that. Do you two need a minute? I could go outside.”

Loki stretched out a hand. Spiralling threads of green light shot out of his fingertips and yanked Tony to his feet. Pepper gasped as Tony was forcibly pulled in toward her, knees planted on either side of her thighs on the oversized office chair. He was effectively in her lap. Which was…interesting. Pepper was okay with that.

“I don’t think I want you going anywhere,” Loki told Tony, flicking one of his buttons clean off his shirt. Pepper watched as long fingers parted the collar of his shirt all the way down to his arc reactor, which was level with her eyes.

“Miss Potts, if you’d please finish what I’ve started, I would much appreciate it.”

Pepper blinked. “Are you suggesting…”

“Oh, he’s doing more than suggesting it,” Tony panted, reaching over her to pull at the buckles of Loki’s armour. “You going to get my pants or is that outside your job description?”

Pepper thought about it. She reached for his belt buckle.

“Acting CEO gets to do whoever she wants.”

 

 


	20. Regrets (Like Old Friends)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victory belongs to Loki. At last

“Well now. Here it ends.”

Thor stared up at the sky.

Even through blurred vision, through the blood that ran into his eyes he could see the vast night sky of Midgard. No stars shined. Thunderclouds blanketed the sky, dispersing slowly with no power to guide them. Some distance away, Mjölnir lay cold and dead; the link between them severed. It had known all along that he could not kill his own brother.

Loki did not share his sentiment. Pressing a hard-booted heel down on Thor’s broken chest he leaned over his brother, joyful wrath glinting in his eyes. Loki’s sharp-tipped staff pressed against the hollow of Thor’s throat with cruel intent.

“I suppose I can afford to be gracious just this one time,” Loki said wickedly, edgy with his victory so near. “Now tell me, Thor. _Brother_. Heir to the throne of Asgard. Have you any last words?”

Thor pulled a shallow breath into his lungs, blinking up at the hazy outline of his brother’s face in the darkness. What was there to say? That he was sorry, that he wished things had turned out differently? That Thor loved Loki even now, with his body shattered and a staff to his throat - that he would always love his greedy, cruel, broken younger brother? The words had already been said, a thousand-thousand times over. Liars never recognised the truth for what it was.

Thor held a heart full of regrets where Loki was concerned. But words held no sway with him anymore, and so there was nothing more to be said.

Loki’s smile slowly faded with Thor’s continued silence, his good humour draining away into something dark and tight and desperate.

“Nothing? The mighty Thor with _nothing_ to say?”

A rush of breathless laughter escaped Loki, and he cast an eye around the desolate area as though searching for a witness to the occasion. But the dart of his eyes was wild, his smile more a vicious baring of teeth than anything resembling happiness. Loki had not expected this.

Below him Thor coughed, feeling bile and blood boiling in the back of his throat. Turning his head he choked and spat it out, breathing raggedly, knowing his strength had waned too much. It would not be long. He barely felt the fingers that swiped across his bloody mouth, didn’t register Loki kneeling beside him until a hand curved under his skull, turning his head to meet his brother’s gaze.

“You think I won’t do it—you think I’m not _strong_ enough? Is that it?” Another laugh, or was it a sob? Loki trembled with terrible emotion, knuckles whitening as he gripped the staff, held it aloft and ready to strike.

“My entire life has led to this, Thor, to _this_ moment. _My victory over you_. If you think I-I-I’m not going to strike, if you _think_ —”

“Loki,” Thor whispered, the name bloody as it slipped off his tongue. “You have already killed me. Be at peace, now.”

Green eyes widened as they stared down at him and Loki’s fractured composure finally fell apart. The staff fell from his fingers, hitting the hard-packed dirt with a muffled clang. A searching gaze darted over Thor’s splayed limbs, his pallor, the blood.

Victory.

“I did it,” Loki whispered, terrified.

Tear-bright, his eyes sought Thor’s. Sought forgiveness, sought safety and refuge and acceptance where he had only turned it away before. This was Thor. This was his brother. Loyal, stupid, arrogant—and now, _now_ , kind-hearted to a fault. Merciful. Strong. Warm and bright and everything Loki had hated—

“Please, I…”

But as he stared down at his brother Loki knew there would be no forgiveness for him. Thor had died quietly between one breath and the next, slipping away in the ruin of his brother’s regret.

_Be at peace,_ Loki thought, and laughed as he wept, forehead bent to his brother’s.

So Thor had a sense of humour, after all.

 


	21. Bowling Night + Rough 'n' Tumble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because making a Slip 'n' Slide out of the Bifrost sounds like a great way to settle a bet when you're wasted. Heimdall disagrees.

Heimdall stood at the doorway to the bifrost, staring down the length of the bridge with the fearless gaze of the guardian of worlds. Before him was his greatsword, Hofud, which he bore down upon with gauntleted hands.

His foe outnumbered him.

He would not falter.

“ _None shall pass_.”

The deep timbre of his voice carried the promise across the night air like thunder, rolling and ominous. Partway down the length of the bridge to his domain stood two brothers, tall and proud, full of the belief that they could best him.

The glitter of the bridge was warped with oil and grease; dangerously so. Sure footing would not be found for one hundred metres, at least.

Thor backed up another thirty meters, Loki by his side. Heimdall stood silent and watchful across the greased expanse, his golden eyes impassive.

“He’s going to kill us if we reach him,” Loki said thoughtfully, unbuckling and pulling his armour and mantle off over his head. “Or at least pin us down like royal butterflies with that sword of his. Are we mad?”

Thor tipped his head back and laughed. His armour and Mjölnir were set carefully to one side in preparation for their task. Thus, two bothers clad in no more than soft tunics of red and green faced down one who was feared and respected almost as much as their father was.

“We are young, drunk and reckless, Brother,” Thor replied. “Let us enjoy the night, and pray we do not die.”

Loki nodded grimly, a razor smile curving his lips.

“Just remember that when I win, we’re switching rooms. I want your balcony, Thor, and I mean to have it.”

“And when _I_ win, you’re going to bear me a steed mightier than even Sleipnir!”

“You are depraved,” Loki swore, aghast. “You would really prostitute me to a stallion for a _bet?_ ”

Thor shrugged. “I like horses,” he admitted. “Now take your mark. We begin on the count of three!”

The rules were simple. At a thirty meter run-up, whoever could then slide across the greased bridge and reach Heimdall first would win. The stakes were high. For Thor, giving up his room meant his days of spying on Sif were long over. For Loki…well. Loki didn’t want the stretch marks.

Losing was not an option.

“One!”

Thor braced booted feet, shifting for optimum traction.

“Two!”

Loki’s heart pounded, flooding his body with adrenaline.

“ _Three_!”

And Heimdall watched as the sons of Odin All-Father sprinted down the bifrost toward him with all the rage of battle glowing fiercely in their eyes—

—and hurl themselves belly-down onto the bridge and come shooting toward him like two brightly-coloured comets, a tail of energy lighting their travelled path behind them.

“ _Wheeeeeeeee!!_ ”

That sounded suspiciously like Loki.

Heimdall’s hands tightened around the hilt of his sword, his eyes narrowing. They weren’t slowing in the slightest, in fact, they almost appeared to be _gaining_ speed—

Murdering Odin’s children _was_ a crime, he reminded himself, and punishable by death. At this rate they were going to break his damned legs unless he stepped aside. And that he could not do.

“That room is mine, Thor!” Loki yelled as his lighter form lent him greater speed across the crystalline surface. “You never had a chance!”

Thor bellowed with rage. “I want my damned horse!”

Reaching out as the world flew by, Thor grabbed Loki’s booted foot and dragged him back so they sped evenly, but ruined their momentum by doing so. Instead a haphazard slap-fight broke out as they rolled together through the grease, their streamlined path dissolving into an unpredictable two-man spin.

“Oh, f—”

Heimdall had just enough time to throw his sword into the bifrost before two overgrown children brought their tantrum barrelling straight into his armoured legs, taking them out from under him and sending them all flying backward in a flurry of armour and limbs.

Silence fell for a moment as a dizzy warrior, a stunned guardian and a nauseous sorcerer lay tangled together within the domed observatory of the bifrost, out of breath and incredibly greasy.

“I’m not giving birth for you,” Loki vowed in a muffled voice, somewhere beneath Heimdall’s thigh. “I don’t care what kind of mount you want.”

“And you can’t have my balcony,” Thor replied, sitting up groggily. “I need that for…things.”

Heimdall shifted as Loki half-emerged from underneath his legs, looking rumpled and with a distinct case of the crazy-eyes. Reaching down with one hand, he extracted the mischievous prince and tossed him in the direction of his brother.

They both stared at him with growing apprehension as he staggered to his feet, casting an eye about for his sword.

“That two drunk, well-lubricated princes should slide into my domain and topple me,” Heimdall muttered ominously, reaching for the hilt of his sword. “The All-Father needs a new babysitter. Get out of my sight, both of you.”

Loki rubbed at one eye lazily. “Good Heimdall, you see _all_ —”

Hofud slid home into its niche in the bifrost mechanism with a hard _clang,_ cutting him off.

Heimdall just watched them vanish into a blaze of multi-coloured light, feeling oddly at peace. Let Midgard deal with them for the night.

_He_ had a bifrost bridge to mop.

* * *

 

Given how angry Heimdall had been when he sent them on their way, it was no surprise that the bifrost deposited them on Midgard.

At night.

On the steep side of a hill.

Thor had just enough time to realise he was listing dangerously backwards before Loki made an undignified squawking sound and grabbed at him in a fit of panic, offsetting their balance entirely.

Thor let himself keel backwards with a resigned sigh, pulling Loki in and covering his brother’s head before they tumbled end over end down through tussock and dirt, bouncing painfully over rocks, each one biting viciously through the thin fabric of Thor’s tunic. Their dizzying roll seemed to go on forever.

Eventually though, the world evened out as they rolled to a stop, naturally preceding a truly spectacular shower of dirt and shale that left both brothers coughing and gagging for air.

“Curse you, Heimdall!” Thor bellowed as he got to his feet, only to stagger rapidly to one side and collapse in the dirt again. He shook a fist at the sky. “I will remember this day!”

Moaning, Loki just crawled away on all fours to vomit in the grass.

“Is this Midgard?” Loki rasped, spitting and wiping his mouth. “I hate Midgard! Everything smells like rotten eggs here.”

“I feel like a piece of breaded chicken,” Thor said mournfully. The grease from the bifrost had mixed with the dirt and grass from their fall, making them both look like a pair of crazed cave trolls.

“You do look quite appalling,” Loki agreed. Then he looked down at the mess he’d made. “Thor, I don’t remember eating carrots tonight.”

Thor made a second attempt to get to his feet, this time actually succeeding in staying upright. Staring about their new location he took mental stock of their situation.

They’d both left their armour back on the bifrost, they were bruised from head to toe and they were both still reasonably drunk. To make matters worse they were also both coated in filth and completely stranded in what appeared to be an uninhabited stretch of wilderness.

Things were not looking too bright.

“Thor, come here and have a look at this! I think you can still see the fork print!”

But at least Loki seemed in fine spirits.

“At least it seems peaceful enough here,” Thor decided. “Let’s just wait for Heimdall to calm down and bring us back to Asgard.”

“Heimdall can sit on my horns,” Loki said darkly, uncoiling to his full height. Then he blinked. “No, that’s not quite right.”

“You know that he probably heard that, don’t you?” Thor told him as his brother limped over. Loki shot him a death glare.

“I don’t care if he heard. In fact, I _hope_ he heard!” He turned his eyes to the heavens. “Did you hear that, Heimdall? _You can go sit on my horns, you great golden voyeuristic—!_ ”

Thor clapped a hand over Loki’s mouth before he could say any more, muffling his own scandalised sniggering in his brother’s shoulder. What in the Nine had gotten into him?

Completely unfazed by his forced silence, Loki simply raised both fists to the sky in a double middle-finger salute. It could only have been some kind of insult, knowing his brother.

“Have you completely lost your mind?!” Thor hissed in his ear, eyes streaming and shoulders shaking with repressed laughter. “Stop angering the Gatekeeper!”

Loki pushed his hand away from his mouth.

“I do what I want, Thor!” he replied haughtily. “I’m dirty, half-drunk, tired, sore and my mouth tastes like vomit – if I want to insult Heimdall I’m going to damn well do so, you—you…why are you laughing? Thor?”

Wiping his eyes, Thor tried to hold back his laughter for Loki’s sake, but every time he looked at his fuming brother it all came flooding back. Silver-tongued Loki, trickster Loki, screaming raw insults at the sky with no more care for his words than a commoner might have. It was a priceless moment he could scarcely believe he was witnessing.

“You know,” Thor said finally, tired with laughter, “he is probably watching you right now also.”

Loki’s eyes slitted. “You’re _right_.”

The green glow of magic gathering around Loki’s fists was all the warning Thor had before his brother’s clothes completely vanished. Sprinting out into the open air, Loki performed an excellent cartwheel Thor really could have done without seeing.

“Get an eyeful of _that_ , Heimdall! _Woooooooooo!!_ ”

Thor hung his head as Loki began pelvic thrusting at the moon.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Back on the bifrost, Heimdall broke his mop in half and threw it in the water with a curse.

He wasn’t even getting _paid_ for this.

* * *

Inside the palace, Odin slapped a palm over his eye.

“Are our sons well on Midgard, my husband?” Frigga asked worriedly.

Odin gave a long-suffering sigh.

“Loki could use more sunlight.”


	22. Lessons + Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Loki learned that his brother was devious, demented and depraved all at the same time. Giving ‘horseplay’ a whole new meaning.

 

“You lost the wager, brother,” said Thor, his eyes shining with laughter. “Now you must uphold your end of the deal. As promised.”

The day had ended well for Thor; Loki had failed to sneak into Sleipnir’s stable unnoticed by Heimdall (who had in turn alerted Father of the impending burglary) and it was with bruised pride that Loki found himself sulkily conceding defeat. This time.

Scuffing his foot against the edge of the bifrost bridge, Loki scowled down at the churning water below.

“All right, Thor,” he said finally. “The terms were agreed upon, and I’ll uphold my end of them. I couldn’t steal Father’s horse for you and that means you can…that is, I’ll allow you to…”

Thor’s smile nearly split his face. “To…? Spit it out, Loki.”

Loki’s eye twitched. “To ride _me_ to the feast.”

Thor’s hearty clap on Loki’s shoulder was forceful enough to make him stagger. He really had no idea of his own strength sometimes. Loki eyed him critically. Considering Thor’s size perhaps he should assume the form of a large stallion. If he could manage it, anyway. It had been a long time since he had attempted a shape-shift into a horse.

“Come on, brother,” Thor was saying, gesturing grandly at the palace. “The feast awaits us! Or do you need time to gather your courage?”

The glare Loki levelled him was half-hearted, but still contained enough displeasure to widen Thor’s smile further. A typical reaction, really.

“Give me time to gather my _magic_ , Thor. It’s not easy to shift into a horse, and I’d hate to cast an incomplete spell. Or would you prefer that I break a leg on the way and send us both straight into the water?”

Thor’s eyes darkened with confusion, his smile fading slightly. Then he blinked.

“Oh, you— Oh _no_ , Loki. You don’t understand.”

Thor’s laughter followed that galling statement; deep, rolling amusement that echoed in the evening air. Loki grit his teeth and smoothed his face into an expressionless mask, unsure what had sparked his brother’s amusement and not willing to show it.

“Loki,” Thor wheezed after a fashion, tired with laughter and wiping the corners of his eyes, “when did we agree that you could shape-shift?”

Loki stared at Thor, the colour draining from his face.

“You want… _no_! I will not suffer this—this _indignity_ , let alone your lumbering body clinging to my back, I— No. Absolutely not. I’ll be a laughingstock.”

“You agreed to the terms, brother. You must abide by them.” Thor was clearly enjoying this far too much.

Loki was torn. He couldn’t have it getting out that he did not honour his deals, whatever else he might do. _Damn_ Thor.

With slow, stiff movements, Loki bent slightly, tucking his mantle back behind his elbows. The glance he shot back at his brother was one of repressed violence and utter constipation. But he gave in.

“Get on, damn it,” he grumbled. “And tell no-one about this or I will _personally_ see to it that Mother finds out about those lewd etchings you keep hidden under your mattress.”

“I’m holding that for _Fandral_ ,” Thor replied, offended. He swung his thigh over the small of Loki’s back and felt the catch of his brother’s hand steady him. After a brief fumble of hands and armour Thor soon found himself seated proudly astride his fuming brother.

“You eat too much,” Loki grunted as he hoisted Thor higher. “Hold on.”

Thor was beaming. They hadn’t mucked around like this since they were children. Despite his frankly immature glee in embarrassing his sly younger brother, a small bubble of affection rose in his chest. Loki indulged him too often, usually against his better judgement.

Gripping one of the bronze horns jutting from Loki’s helmet, Thor pointed proudly out to the city.

“ONWARD!”

Loki hung his head a moment, then lifted it and began their slow trek back home.

“For the record, I have never hated you more than I do right now.”

* * *

 

"Don't talk to me. I think you broke my spine."

Those were the first words from Loki's mouth as Thor stood in the threshold of his brother's chambers. Smiling, he leaned slightly on the wall for support. The feast had been enjoyable indeed; the food plentiful, wine and mead flowing endlessly. It was late and Thor was pleasantly, sleepily content, but Loki had been avoiding him since the bifrost bridge and he wanted to know why.

"Are you angry with me?" Thor asked, bemused. "Because I could have sworn that you agreed you would carr—"

" _Don't_ say it."

"—that you would transport me to the feast if you could not prove your feat of stealth," Thor continued. "But you've been hiding from me since we arrived for dinner. I ensured no-one would see us; what more would you have me do?"

Loki regarded him coolly from the end of his bed. He sat there clad only in his green tunic and breeches, his armour and helmet discarded. It gave him a softer, more approachable appearance, but Thor knew better. This was still his prickly younger brother, and he was mightily displeased.

Curiosity frayed the edges of his patience but Thor waited in silence, knowing Loki would speak eventually. Whether he would speak the truth was another matter entirely.

With a gusting sigh Loki dropped his gaze to his hands, narrow-eyed and frustrated. "My spell should have worked, Thor. Heimdall shouldn't have seen me. _How_ did he see me?"

Thor pondered this. He knew almost nothing about magic, except that Loki was far too enamoured of it.

"Heimdall is eternally aware. No-one has ever escaped his sight."

" _I_ should have," Loki argued, giving him a sharp look. "My veiling spell was flawless - or so I believed. Instead I made a fool of myself. Then to add insult to injury, you made me carry you to the palace like I was a common beast of burden. My back is still aching." Straightening his shoulders slowly, Loki grimaced, shaking his head in disbelief.

Despite his brother's obvious discomfort, Thor found himself smiling a little.

"Perhaps we _are_ a little old for children's games," he admitted. His eyes suddenly gleamed. "Shall I carry you to the healing room?"

"With respect, Brother: try it and I'll bludgeon you to death with my helmet."

Narrowing his eyes at Thor's answering laughter Loki stood up gingerly, working his shoulders as he crossed the room to the fireplace. Gold reflected in his eyes as he lifted his palms to the flames, the heat faintly suffusing his cheeks with colour. Thor decided he was welcome enough and closed the door behind him. He moved to stand by his brother, a smile still curling the corner of his mouth.

"I think if it's possible to escape Heimdall's gaze, you'll be the one to find a way," Thor told him. Loki snorted lightly. "I mean it. I know of no other more skilled in magic and trickery."

"That never sounds like a compliment, coming from you."

"That's because one of your first spells was to make my hair fall out," Thor reminded him with a frown. "Magic can be terrifying."

Loki's mouth twitched faintly. "Cover up, Brother. Your vanity is showing."

"As is your perverse sense of humour," Thor countered, shifting his weight and purposely bumping his brother a step sideways. He was immediately sorry, however, as Loki tensed and failed to bite back a wince. A harsh shadow of pain crossed his face.

"Loki?" Thor reached out and took his brother by the shoulders, carefully turning him to face him. "You really are in pain, aren't you?"

Loki twisted in his brother's grip, squirming like an unhappy cat. "It's nothing," he denied. "Some muscle tenderness. Let go. I'll be fine."

"I won't be, if Mother finds out," Thor grimaced. "Turn around and let me work out these knots. It will hurt, but you'll sleep better for it."

Loki's eyes widened sharply. " _No_ , I—"

It only took a firm downward push and Loki's legs bent like that of a straw doll, landing him firmly on his rear amongst the fur hearth rug. That earned Thor a very dark look, Loki's jaw clenching with a bitten-back curse.

"With your usual heavy-handed approach I'll be in healing stasis for a week, unable to move," he told Thor reproachfully. "The art of delicate precision escapes you."

Still Loki only watched with wary eyes as Thor circled around behind him, sitting down and arranging himself behind his brother. Loki pulled off his tunic with a put-upon look and a grimace, allowing Thor to draw it away and toss the garment aside.

Thor rested his hands on his brother's shoulders, feeling tension drawing him taut. Did he really think that Thor was going to hurt him?

"I can be gentle when I choose to be," he told him, stung. "You do trust me, don't you?"

Loki's head turned slightly, enough that one narrowed green eye was visible. The look in it was indecipherable. Then he was turning away again, shifting back slightly into Thor's supporting grip.

"Don't you know a token resistance when you hear one?" Loki said, sighing crossly. "Get on with it then. I'd like to get some sleep tonight."

Thor relaxed and turned his attention to the task at hand. It was Loki's way to be difficult and slippery in the best of situations, but he rarely truly denied Thor anything. It had always been so. Besides, he had injured Loki with his thoughtlessness. It wasn't in his nature to ignore that and let his younger brother suffer.

The first careful kneading motions of his hands along the breadth of Loki's shoulders elicited a hissing indrawn breath, but no protest was made. Taking that as tacit permission to continue Thor started to work in earnest, large hands stroking down the curve of Loki's spine, mapping the injured areas and what was simply his uptight brother's usual tension-knotted muscle. Loki had terrible posture when he studied, spending long hours hunched over dusty tomes in the library. Mother always chastised him for it, but he never stopped. It was no wonder he was in pain.

It was satisfying work, putting Loki to rights, and he was a docile patient to say the least. Even upon hitting some tender areas alongside the curve of his spine Loki had only gasped, his head lowering as Thor wordlessly pushed his thumbs firmly into the taut muscle, carefully working it before warming the skin and finally relaxing the abused area in long, deft strokes of his fingers.

Loki eventually sighed long and low, his own fingers relaxing where they were fisted in the plush fur of the rug.

"You have a talent for this." He sounded half-asleep, blissful contentment dissolving his usual sarcasm and leaving only grateful sincerity behind. At his shoulder, Thor allowed himself a pleased smile.

"After receiving Mjölnir I spent seven evenings in a row visiting the healing room with arms so sore I could barely move them," Thor confided, remembering his stiff spine and proud, stubborn refusal to show anyone how bad his training injuries were. Mjölnir chose _him_. "The women there showed me how to manage my own muscle strain and tend to it."

"And here I thought you simply possessed a natural proficiency for the weapon," Loki replied, sounding distant. "You hid your pain well enough. I suspected nothing."

"You avoided me for two weeks," Thor reminded him, frowning. "I barely saw you in that entire time. You were not there to notice anything, Brother."

"I was busy."

"With your magic? You didn't even attend the celebration." That was an old hurt, one Thor had long ago tried to file under 'Loki being Loki'. It hadn't worked then, either.

"I prefer my own company."

"I would have preferred yours."

Loki laughed sharply. "And Thor always gets what he wants, doesn't he? How remiss of me to forget. I do apologise, brother, for having better things to do than sit in the grand hall and remind you of how flawless you are."

Thor's hands stilled, frustration swarming under his skin. Why did things always have to be so difficult where they were concerned? Why did Loki persist in making it so hard to simply sit and talk?

"Flawless? Hardly," Thor replied eventually, fingers returning to Loki's shoulders, this time in broad, firm strokes. "Besides, if you'd rather spend your time alone than be with me, what was tonight? Making terrible bets with me, sneaking around trying to steal Father's horse?"

"A whim," Loki replied dismissively. "One that ended with you riding me like a horse, mind you, so don't think I'll be doing it again anytime soon." He shifted back further into Thor's grip. "Up a bit. No, higher. Do my neck. Really, Thor, could you pay attention to what you're doing back there?"

"What's that?" Thor said curiously. "Wring your neck? Well, I suppose I could—"

" _Gyyaack_!"

Pale hands pulled at his wrists as Thor squeezed the arched column of his brother's throat, feeling it bob under his palm as Loki swallowed and tried to breathe. It was nowhere near enough pressure to cut off his air supply but Loki put on a grand show of choking and losing consciousness, falling backward to collapse limply against Thor's chest.

Thor looked down at the slumped figure in his arms, at the dark crescents his eyelashes made on his cheeks; at the slightly parted lips that allowed a strained, wheezing breath to pass between them. He made a fetching damsel in distress, Thor thought with amusement. And a talented actor.

"Well, now that he's unconscious I suppose I can go through his room," Thor mused loudly. "Does he still keep that diary under the hearth stone by the pokers, I wonder?"

" _No_ ," the unconscious Loki said vehemently.

Thor snorted. "My brother can answer even in his sleep? Such talent."

"I have many talents."

"Is swooning like an overcome young maiden one of them?" Thor asked, shifting his armful of wilted prince pointedly. Loki's eyes slid open and fixed him with an amused look.

"Perhaps. I don't know," he replied with a lift of his eyebrows. "Of the two of us I'm not the one who spends my spare time catching swooning maidens. How do I rate? Give it to me straight, now. I can take it."

Thor couldn't contain his wide smile, any more than he could stop himself gathering his brother to his chest, appraising the ease with which Loki had surrendered his entire weight to Thor. He seemed to be in a _very_ good mood now, and Thor wasn't about to let it pass him by.

"I'll give you points for technique, but overall you make a poor maiden. Your elbows are sharp and you're too heavy," Thor told him seriously. Then he paused. "Also most maidens are grateful for my assistance."

Loki frowned faintly. "Grateful? I'm—no Thor, I'm not going to kiss you. How anyone can stand your facial hair long enough to do so is a mystery."

Thor was alarmed. "What's wrong with my beard?"

"Please. It's like a bristly yellow animal declared war on your face."

"It's well-groomed!" Thor argued, running a hand across one cheek to reassure himself. "I've never had a complaint about it. Here—" He abruptly reached for Loki's hand, intending on drawing it up to his face.

Loki yelped and started scrambling out of his lap. "I don't want to touch it, don't make me touch it—"

"You'll like it!" Thor declared, straining forward to catch his brother around the waist before he slithered too far out of his grip. "It's pleasing to touch, I swear!"

"Stop saying these things!" Loki yelled back, planting his foot in Thor's chest and breaking away with a hard push. Thor grunted mightily and pushed away the offending boot, springing forward and tackling Loki just as he tried to stand up. They crashed to the hearth rug heavily, and even Loki in all his cleverness couldn't stop what happened next.

"Nnnn—aughh! _No_! Thor! Get it _away_!" Loki cried desperately as Thor mercilessly shoved his face into his brother's pale neck and went about nuzzling his cheek there like a contented cat, laughing all the while. Loki almost crawled out of his own skin, one eye twitching, fingers clawed.

"See? Do you see?" Thor asked insistently, at last moving up to grin down at his brother, who looked like he'd gone to a peaceful place inside his mind to escape what had just happened. "It's not that bad. You're being over-dramatic."

"I've been sullied," Loki whispered, staring blindly up at the ceiling. "There's no therapy for the raspy torment that has just been visited upon my person." When Thor just barked a laugh and rolled away to lay on the fur beside him, Loki slowly turned his head to focus on Thor, one hand gingerly clapped to his neck.

"I think you've given me a terrible rash," he said accusingly. "How will you explain this, I wonder?"

Thor shrugged, scratching his cheek. "I'll tell them you insulted my beard."

"And that you saw fit to assault my neck with it? Better to lie and tell them I was attacked by a feral creature." Loki paused. "Come to think of it, it's not so much of a lie, really."

Thor just smiled at the ceiling, unoffended. "But you're in such a good mood tonight. How could I resist nettling you when I know I can get away with it?"

Loki frowned curiously. "What makes you think I'm in a good mood?"

"You didn't order me out of your chambers when I first arrived," Thor pointed out, turning his head to smile at his brother. "Before tonight I was beginning to think you didn't want me around at all anymore."

Loki didn't bat an eyelash. "Don't be ridiculous. Me, send away Asgard's golden son? Perish the thought."

"I mean it, Loki," Thor said quietly. He frowned back up at the ceiling, avoiding his brother's eyes this time. "I try not to disturb your studies as you always tell me to, but I hardly see you but for official ceremonies—and even then, you avoid me best as you can. Did I…do something to offend you?"

Loki sighed deeply. "This is something that worries you?"

"Yes _._ " Thor rolled onto his side to face him. "Tell me if I have done something wrong. Let me apologise properly."

"Why must you always think it's about you?" he replied irritably. "It's not. Don't concern yourself with it."

Thor laid his hand on his brother's wrist. "Loki."

"Father said my magic was ' _serviceable'_ ," he spat out in a rush, rigidly furious as he glared up at the ceiling. "He made it sound like a woman's parlour trick! I wanted to learn something that would impress him. _Weeks_ , I spent weeks working on a way to slip past Heimdall, and just when I thought it would work—enough to bring _you_ to see it—it failed and I—I have nothing to show for my effort but my own stupid smarting pride."

Thor watched his brother's narrowed glare burn holes in the ceiling, watched helpless moisture turn his green eyes brilliant in the firelight. Not tears; Loki didn't weep in the presence of anyone. But it was enough emotion that Thor felt every brotherly instinct blaze brightly inside him, making him reach out and—

" _Ow_ ," Loki yowled, covering his reddened ear. "Don't flick!"

"Then stop pitying yourself," Thor replied easily, sitting up and pulling Loki with him. "Get a good night's rest and in the morning I'll let you use your damned magic on me until we find something Father will be impressed by." He straightened his armour absently, frowning down at his sleeve as he thought about it. "He's practical, so something to help the city would be well-looked upon. Maybe fixing something I've broken? Or perhaps I could just break something for this occasion, do you think that would help at all?"

Thor looked up in time to see Loki's wondering, broken-open expression just before he ducked his head, schooling his features back into their usual composed lines.

"Well, that's…generous of you," Loki said finally, not looking at him. "I suppose having a…a willing participant would help. Thank you."

Thor beamed. "You're wel—"

Loki's lips touched the corner of his mouth and were gone again so quickly Thor wasn't sure if he'd had some kind of odd fantasy. But it was the moue of displeasure on Loki's face quickly convinced him otherwise.

"I feel sorry for your maidens," he said frankly, rubbing his lips. "Remind me to never do that again. Is this bristly madness what Mother has to put up with?"

Thor felt ill. "Don't…don't make me picture that."

Loki's eyes shone with mischief. "Picture what? The night of your conception? The sweaty, sinful acts that were _ow-ow-ow get out of my neck Thor—_ "

Thor chose to ignore the order, and set about truly nettling his brother into a brighter mood. It was his duty, as he saw it.

Loki would forgive him, surely. Loki always did.

* * *

The strange looks began the next morning, but for whatever reason no one dared to vocalise their theories on why Loki had an angry rash on his neck, nor why a very miserable-looking Thor seemed to have completely rid himself of his golden beard.

And his eyebrows.

 


End file.
